


Within His Power

by NoBezel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Butt Plugs, Discussion of mpreg, Geneism, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Underage (Stiles is seventeen), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoBezel/pseuds/NoBezel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a wolfish cyborg, brother of the Governor of California, heir to the Hale fortune. Stiles is a un-sequenced human in a world of designer DNA. When Derek is forced to choose a mate, no one expects him to choose Stiles. To be fair, Derek doesn't expect him to say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for the 2013 round of the [Teen Wolf Big Bang](http://teenwolf-bb.livejournal.com/). My glorious artist is Bri. You can see more of her art on her [ tumblr](http://tylerhoechlions.tumblr.com). She was very patient with my crazy life as well as general irresponsibility. Her art is inserted in the fic. You can find the full-sized images [here](http://tylerhoechlions.tumblr.com/post/70655432303/twbb). 
> 
> This story would not be the same without the help of my lovely beta, BB, who is one of those precious RL friends who's willing to read your fanfiction. 
> 
> Originally, I was inspired by [this post](http://imthekeptainnow.tumblr.com/post/52814571336/i-can-totally-see-this-being-a-mating-au-derek) on tumblr. I received permission to use the idea a while ago, and it grew from there. 
> 
> Warnings: I play fast and loose with politics and science. I apologize to any geneticists in advance. Explicit warnings are in the end notes. 
> 
> Terms: Please keep in mind that while the year is 2145, that doesn't mean it's 132 years in the future. The timeline of the story is completely different from meat world. Technology and culture have evolved at a pace similar to that of canon Beacon Hills, but slightly skewed. While I do use a lot of modern day slang ('dude', 'bro', 'whatever', etc.), there's also some vocabulary that the reader will probably not know. The terms should be understandable via context, but if there's any confusion, there is a [glossary](http://nobezel.tumblr.com/whpglossary) on my tumblr that can be ctrl-F'd through at your convenience (it wouldn't fit in the end notes). 
> 
> The terms you _will_ want to know, but may lack sufficient context to puzzle out, are the designations. So:
> 
> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien  
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien  
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien  
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

What nature does blindly, slowly and ruthlessly, man may do providently, quickly, and kindly. As it lies within his power, so it becomes his duty to work in that direction. 

—Sir Francis Galton

*

In some places, it would have been railroad tracks, but in Beacon Hills, it was the Euripides Boyd City Park. Every morning, Stiles drove the length of The Park, east to west. When he passed The Park's western gates, he dropped his speed by five miles per hour. He eased himself to a halt in front of the first stop sign. He peered at his mirrors and watched the speed trap meters wink at him.

The houses this close to The Park were mostly normal, as long as you were looking at their fronts—small, square, like post-war soda boxes, stacked in rows and painted like Springtide ribbons. Around back, of course, they all had moon-porches. Stiles could see them as he made his first left turn: outdoor cushions and fire-pits on flat wooden decks, far as the eye could see. Nothing else. No umbrellas, no Florida rooms, no fences or bushes over four feet tall, and no trees—nothing that could obstruct moonlight. 

Scott would have a moon-porch now, Stiles thought, and he squinted at his navscreen so he could stop thinking it. 

Farther west, the houses grew. Gables, dormers, and extra floors stacked themselves on top of two-car garages. Boats and jet skis appeared in well-paved drives. 

When Stiles slowed to make his final left turn, a fine mist of water pocked streaky holes in the grime of his windshield. He tapped the swiper-push and glanced out his window. A broad-shouldered man stood on the corner. He held a hose with a micro-drop skirter that fountained a perfect bell of mist over his lawn. He looked around the age of Stiles' father, except the Sheriff was going silver around the temples and on his arms, and this man's hair was coal black. His aquamarine eyes were so vivid that Stiles could see them from five feet away, across the sidewalk, through the window of his grungy Jeep Throwback. Those eyes narrowed as Stiles made his turn and rolled passed the man's double-pad driveway. 

Two-thirds of the way down the street, Stiles glanced at the rearview v-feed. The man still watched, his squinted eyes full of ocean.

Stiles' fingers double-timed against the steering wheel. He didn't breathe again until he turned down May Lane, Scott's street. Apparently. Now. 

Since.

May Lane was tastefully beige. 

Stiles cursed under his breath as he slowed the Jeep to a crawl and peered out his window at the house numbers. 

It turned out that Scott's house was easy to find because Scott stood in front of it, grinning. He jogged up to the Jeep as soon as Stiles rolled to a halt. 

"Hey, buddy," Stiles chirped as Scott clambered in. 

He tossed his satchel behind Stiles' seat, and Stiles noticed it was the same ragged, faded piece of crap Ms. McCall had bought two summers ago. It matched Stiles' black one. A smile flickered on Stiles' lips as he re-initiated the Jeep's drive mode and jerked away from the curbside, maybe just a tad aggressively. 

"Bro," Scott admonished, lurching against the seatbelt. 

"Sorry," said Stiles. "Just want to get outta here."

"You've never even been here before." 

"There is a reason for that." Stiles gesticulated as well as he could while he whipped the Jeep around. "Your neighbors think I'm a frickin' 'bane dealer or something."

"They do not."

Stiles' hands puffed out like blowfish, his fingers quills. "Um, yes. There was this cit, with, like, the most expensive hose I've ever seen. This thing had a temp-push, and shape options, and, like, a designation, okay? He was just holdin' that thing and his _eyes_ were like frickin' lasers, all _zhoop_!" Stiles' arm shot out, slapping his fingers against Scott's shoulder. "And he was like, _'I know you're here for my Audi, Tape scum._ '"

"Stiles."

"His hose probably had a kill setting, dude. And he was fuckin' considering it. Like, pondering it. He was, like, _this close_ to zippidy-zapping my ass." Stiles squished an invisible line between his fingertips. 

"Could you drive, maybe? Please?" Scott asked, but he said it around a grin so big it split his face like a crescent moon. 

"You know what? Don't sass me," said Stiles, but he smiled back. When Scott McCall smiled at you, that's what you did. 

Scott shook his head and started a mash-push on the Jeep's LiLu, pulling up Stiles' retro playlist as Stiles turned them north and chanced two miles over the speed limit. At this rate, he thought, they might just make school by the bell.

*

Scott and Stiles slipped into the auditorium just as Headmaster Jones surrendered the podium to a redheaded woman with a pixie haircut.

"Thank you for that introduction, Headmaster. I appreciate the gracious welcome of the faculty and staff. Everyone here has extended a hand to me, and I hope that I can do the same for the students of Hale Prep. I know that many of you, especially the upperclassman—" she shot a smile at the front rows where Stiles and Scott slunk into their seats. 

For a moment, Stiles was positive that the woman's eyes caught on Scott, and the edges of her red smile twitched into something cold, but then she continued her speech, chin dipping charmingly as she cast her eyes around the room. 

He might have imagined it. 

But the hair on the back of his neck prickled. 

Stiles touched Scott's shoulder, but Scott didn't turn, entranced by something at the end of their row. Stiles leaned forward, but all he saw was the incomparable Lydia Martin speaking lowly with a brunette girl Stiles didn't recognize. Stiles frowned and settled back in his padded seat. 

The woman continued her speech, smiling and encouraging the juniors and seniors to take advantage of the guidance office when making their college plans. She had a serious moment at the end of her speech and, with a grave countenance, expressed her pride to be in Beacon Hills on this auspicious date. Polite applause followed her as she click-clacked across the stage and into a folding chair. 

Stiles bounced his knee and tapped his fingers against his armrest. The blonde boy beside him gave him the side-eye, but Stiles ignored him. 

Headmaster Jones returned to the podium to begin another introduction. Stiles tuned him out. He'd heard every variation of the Lib-Day speech there was, and he didn't care to hear which bit of color-by-numbers patriotism ol' Jonesy would trot out this year. 

He leaned into Scott's shoulder. 

Scott quirked his eyebrows and Stiles translated: either 'What could you possibly want right now?' or 'Maybe this conversation can wait for we're not surrounded by people with super-hearing?'

Stiles bet on the first. 

"Do you know the guidance counselor?" 

Scott stared at him. Stiles bounced his knee higher. 

"No?" said Scott. 

"Well, I think she knows you. Looks like she's picturing your head mounted over her fireplace."

"What?"

"Like _zhoop_!" He thwacked the side of his hand against Scott's shoulder. "Exactly the same look." 

Mr. Harris, their chemistry teacher, glared at them from his seat on the stage. 

"Can we talk about this later?" Scott breathed. 

Stiles was about to insist they address all (interesting) matters concerning Scott's safety immediately, but his thoughts and mouth were interrupted by the audience breaking into slightly-more-than-polite applause. That couldn't be for Jones' sermon on remembering their history. Stiles swiveled around just in time to see a be-suited entourage emerge from behind the theater curtain. 

A young woman with blackbird hair strode to the podium, two men in tailored suits flanking her. From his seat in the second row, Stiles had a perfect view of their symmetrical faces, their high cheekbones, their lean muscles, and fantastically colored eyes—obvious LPs. And that's when Stiles realized who the woman was. For the last month, he'd seen her face plastered on lawn-signs, and her white smile flashing on every public v-feed in the city limits: Governor Hale. 

It occurred to Stiles that there were not usually photographers hunched by the stage during the first day assembly. There were not normally spectators crowding the back rows of the auditorium. The teachers on stage were not usually dressed in their Moonday best. 

Laura. _Freaking._ Hale.

The men behind her could only be Peter and Derek Hale, her uncle and brother, all three of them alumni of Hale Prep. Peter looked at ease, his posture relaxed, and the ghost of a smirk on his lips. He sank onto his folding chair as if it were a throne. Derek, in contrast, perched stiffly on his seat, arms crossed over his chest, managing, somehow, to look less a pouting toddler and more a brooding model on a photo-shoot. Another miracle of modern science, Stiles thought. 

Laura outshone them both. Radiant under the stage lights, she settled behind the podium as if it were the head of a dinner table: her smile appropriately contained, and her eyes hungry. 

"Good morning," said Laura. A few precious souls bleated 'good morning' back at her.

"I bet those cufflinks would pay my tuition," Stiles grumbled to Scott, glaring at Peter Hale's winking wrists. 

"You don't pay tuition," said Scott. 

"It's the principle." 

"Sean McCormick was five months pregnant"—all chatter ceased—"when a mob stormed his home in east BH and marched him, bound, to the fringes of Beacon Hills Preserve."

The room oriented itself towards the Governor, as if she were not so much a political preacher at her pulpit, but a greater, irresistible fulcrum around which the room revolved. 

"There, they strung him up with aconite ropes, and for two hours, beat him. Cursed him. Spat on him. They struck him until Sean's body ceased to heal, until the LP's biological fail-safes activated and abandoned Sean in favor of his child—the future.

"But that future died, too, left broken on the roots of an oak tree."

Utter silence. 

Alpha, Stiles thought. 

"There was no investigation. There were no arrests."

It was one thing to know what the presence of an Alpha could do to young double-doubles, and another to see it in action. The LPs sat like ladies at finishing school, chins parallel with the floor, their bodies bent slightly towards the stage, their attention all for the Alpha at the head of the room. 

Stiles leaned to his left, into Scott's space, a quip in his mouth about stalled updates for the LP firmware, only to find Scott sitting stiffly upright, hands curled over his armrests, eyes fixated on the stage. 

One thing to know it, Stiles thought, and another to see it in action. 

Stiles leaned back into his own space.

"Seventy-eight years ago, today, students of then Beacon Hills Preparatory Academy left their desks and took to the streets. Their friends followed. And their parents. And their parents' friends. And then the West entire.

"Sean McCormick was not the first to die, but we—students, parents, friends—ensured that he would be the last.

"Out of enemies, we made Pack. Out of a riot, we created a nation. As one body, we have reclaimed the future that perished at the hands of the mob. And it began here. 

"It is our duty to honor the sacrifices of our past. We are also charged with safeguarding the promise of our future. We must do better in listening to each other—listening to the unjaded voices of the students, who were the first to rise; and to heed the wisdom of our neighbors, especially those whose perspectives differ from our own. This was our victory then, and will be ours again. This is our legacy. Courageous, whole, united, and free.

"God's grace on California, on America, and may Her face ever shine on the Pacific." 

The teachers stood up, and the students followed. Stiles lurched to his feet, but his eyes were not on Hale, but on the guidance counselor behind her. The counselor's arrowhead eyes slit holes in the back of the Governor's head.

*

"That was weird," said Stiles. He and Scott waded through the crowd draining from the auditorium. Many of the spectators loitered in the halls, students dodging between them.

"What was?" said Scott. He craned his neck, and Stiles frowned, craning his own as well, trying to see what Scott was looking at. 

"That. The speech, the Governor, the redhead."

"Is this about Lydia?"

"What? No. Why? Did she say something?"

Scott shot him a look, which was totally, _totally_ uncalled for. 

"Whatever. It's strange. The Governor just gave the shortest, most dramatic Lib-Day speech ever in the absolutely least important venue she could have chosen. Jonesy was obviously unprepared for it, and— look, look!" Stiles pointed at a huddle of anxious people dressed in pantsuits. "Her staff is totally freaked out. This is bizarre." 

"It was just a speech," said Scott, shrugging, still trying to look over the sea of heads. 

"What are you even doing?"

Scott ignored his tone and put one hand on Stiles' shoulder, pointing down the hallway with the other. "You see that girl?"

Stiles squinted. "Lydia?"

"No, the brunette. Talking to Lydia."

Standing near Lydia Martin's locker was a brunette girl with mounds of wavy hair and an overwhelming smile. Gorgeous, but then again, this was Hale Prep, and she was talking to Lydia Martin. Probably WOSHS, maybe VSHS, Stiles thought. Definitely sequenced. 

"Dude, stop pointing," he tugged on Scott's arm.

"Do you know her?"

"Not yet. Must be new."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. 

Stiles shot him a knowing look. 

"McCall!" 

Stiles rolled his eyes on reflex. Jackson Whittemore's voice had that effect on people.

The dreamy look dropped off Scott's face as Jackson came into view. He and Stiles paused, and Scott moved just slightly in front of him, defensive already. Stiles didn't know if he should be touched or embarrassed. 

"I hear you're joining the team this year," said Jackson. A few passing students took notice of their tête-à-tête, but moved, tilting their heads together to gossip. A glance down the hall confirmed that they now had Lydia and the brunette's attention as well.

"We've been on the team since we were sophomores," said Stiles.

Jackson didn't spare him a look.

"A real team." 

Scott frowned. "We've been on the same team for three years, dude."

Jackson rolled his eyes and sighed as if Scott was being intentionally difficult, like Scott was the one giving him a hard time. Stiles was about to jump in when Lydia slipped under Jackson's arm, leaning her head against his chest. 

"First string, he means," said Lydia, as if she'd been part of the conversation all along. 

"They're still the same team," Stiles muttered. 

"But are they? I mean, really?" Lydia canted her head, smiling unkindly. 

"Hey, I'm gonna head to class," said the brunette, passing behind Lydia.

Scott perked up. "Um, what class?" 

Lydia raised an eyebrow. 

"Gym," said the girl. "You know, HS gym." She wiggled her bag. 

"Me too," said Stiles.

"Fascinating," Jackson sneered. 

"Scott, meet Allison. Allison, Scott. He's going to play LP lacrosse this year," said Lydia, as she raked her eyes over Scott. 

Allison smiled shyly. Scott beamed as if she'd just proposed.

"Hey," said Scott. 

"Yeah, hey," said Stiles, walking towards the girl. "So, we should go, right?" 

"Oh," said Allison. "Um, yeah. Let's go."

*

Allison was a VSHS, no surprise there. Her smile was overwhelmingly white, and her dimples nearly as adorable as Danny Mahealani's. She'd lived, like, a dozen places all over the United States, but she said she liked BH just fine. And that was nice. She was…nice. She was just so fucking nice. Plenty to report to Scott about later.

Lydia and the other sequenced girls claimed Allison as soon she wandered out of the locker rooms. 

Stiles meandered towards the bleachers, towards the handful of other little Vs, their knees looking especially knobby poking out of their gym shorts. Finstock emerged from his office a few minutes later, blowing his whistle, and screaming about how he hadn't seen weather like this since his vacation to Haight-Ashbury. He ordered them all out of doors. 

The Hale Prep grounds were bordered on two sides by the Beacon Hills Preserve, evergreens and underbrush girded with a chain-link fence. The fields themselves were immaculate: two regulation lacrosse fields for the state champions, a soccer field, and a football stadium ringed with a pillowphalt track. Finstock sent them running on the track, and gave no indication that he would stop them soon. Stiles fell into an easy jog. 

Ahead of him, Allison broke out her wide, white smile for a gaggle of cackling girls. As a group, they glanced back at Stiles, and he tripped, wheeling his arms for balance. Allison's smile turned pained, but the others laughed, and Lydia smirked. He couldn't blame them; it was funny. He was just glad Jackson was too busy maintaining his two-hundred yard lead to pay attention to Stiles. 

Five minutes later, the LP gym class trickled out of the gymnasium, lacrosse sticks slung over their shoulders. Stiles watched with envy as they took their positions on the twin fields. He watched the first play, looking for Scott's floppy, black hair. The second play, Scott made a goal, dashing around a super-humanly swift defender. Stiles grinned. Scott's teammates whooped and clapped him on the back. They lined up to do it again. 

Watching their celebration, Stiles felt something smooth and heavy fall into his stomach. 

He glanced at Finstock, but the coach was busy scowling at the lacrosse fields, paying no attention to his charges on the track. Stiles kept his eyes on Finstock as he cut away from the red pillowphalt, but the man never looked up. Stiles made it to gym's back doors, mashed the perm-push, and slipped inside. 

Cutting the first period of the first day may not exactly have been Stiles' best decision, but running in circles while his best friend scored goals half a universe away made his eyes hot and his fists clench, and it's not like Finstock was going to notice, anyway. 

Stiles changed his clothes and headed towards the parking lot. There was just enough time left to grab a tub of curly fries and hustle back before second period. He took the science corridor instead of chancing the walk past the admin offices.

"—and this list has twenty names on it. Do you know how long that's going to take?"

Stiles paused. Voices from the lab hallway, maybe ten yards off, but there were no labs this early in the day. 

"It's a little important, Der, I thought maybe you'd take some time at it."

"Why don't you just pick one for me, _Lor_?"

Stiles recognized that voice. He scuttled back and ducked behind a row of lockers. Not sufficient camouflage from a pair of VLPHs, but hopefully the school's sounds would muffle his heartbeat and breathing.

"Why must you be a child about absolutely everything? I'm trying to give you options."

"Here's an option: we go home, you stay out of my business."

"You've made that impossible."

"Inconvenient for you is not the same as impossible."

"It's time, Derek."

Derek growled. 

"It's time," said Laura, her voice softer. "I know you can feel it."

Stiles decided it was _time_ to draw some attention to himself. He fell into the lockers with a clatter, and then whipped himself around the corner. 

He kept his eyes on the double-doors and marched down the corridor, fingers twisting in the straps of his backpack. He did _not_ look down the lab hall. He barely breathed until he pushed into the sunlight. Then he took gulps of gravelly air. 

He sat still in the front seat of the Throwback, fingers twirling through the options on his LiLu, thoughts alight, curly fries forgotten. 

He knew why the Governor was here.

*

U.S. History passed like a bad techno song—interminable—beat kept by Stiles' bouncing knee grazing the bottom of the desk. His VSHS teacher sniffed at Stiles as if he was an ill-behaved puppy, but didn't send him out. Stiles fled the classroom the moment he was dismissed.

Power walking his way through the halls, he dodged elbows, bags, and meandering cliques. He whined impatiently behind slow-moving traffic. He snarled at the idiot humanoids clogging the cafeteria door. 

He realized he'd arrived too early. 

A few lonely brown baggers milled around the tables. Stiles slumped into a corner table and pulled out his ZipBox and history homework. 

Fifteen minutes later, the tables twittered like trees at sunrise. Stiles finished the last of his reading, and looked up, blinking. His eyes caught on a familiar mop of dark hair. Scott was sitting…Stiles' eyebrows quirked. With Lydia Martin? And Jackson?

Whatever. Stiles shoved his lunch and his book back into his bag. 

"Scott, buddy, bro, dude," said Stiles, dragging a chair from a neighboring table and wedging it between Scott and—holy fuck, Danny Mahealani, okay—Stiles nodded masculinely at Danny. Danny's dimples did not appear. Shame. 

Stiles straddled the chair. 

"What's up?" said Scott. 

Stiles spread his hands—'I am about to lay some knowledge down.' "I know why the Governor is here." 

"Didn't she give a speech?" said Danny. 

"Okay. Why?" said Scott. And Stiles noticed his nervous glances between Stiles and someone behind him. Allison, Stiles bet. 

"It's her brother, dude. It's mate season; as in the season of mate hunting; as in Derek Hale is mate hunting; as in somebody is about to become the wolf-bride of Hale."

"Oh," said Scott. "Dude. Here? We're sorta…young?"

"We're the highest concentration of young, healthy, unattached, politically advantageous mates in the Northern region," said Lydia. "Of course that's why Derek is here." She scoffed. "What did you think this was, a photo op?" 

Jackson cast her sideways glance. 

"I mean, obviously." 

Jackson nodded as if it was, indeed, obvious, but the furrow of his brow denied it. 

"Wasn't obvious to me," said Scott. "I mean, isn't that kind of sketchy?" He wrinkled his nose. "What's he gonna do, line us up and look at our teeth?" 

"Pretty much, yeah," said Allison, her tone decidedly less playful. "If you meet the criteria, you'll get an interview, and whichever one of us he likes, he'll just"—her lip curled—"pick."

"Ew," said Danny. 

"Yeah," said Scott. 

"Oh, whatever," said Jackson. "If Derek Hale picked any of you, you'd bare your necks so fast you'd get whiplash, don't pretend like you wouldn't."

"Maybe you should speak for yourself, there, Whittemore," said Stiles. 

"Maybe you shouldn't speak at all, B-team."

"Hey," Scott snapped, a rough touch of the wolf in his voice. 

"Hey yourself." Jackson huffed and tossed his fork on his plate. 

Stiles rubbed his fingers against the plastic back of the chair, trying to keep his blush confined to the back of his neck. 

"It's obviously…pragmatically…" Lydia hesitated. "Well, who wouldn't want to be a Hale?" She looked significantly at the mural on the cafeteria wall, the Hale Preparatory Academy crest featured prominently in the center. 

"And it's not like he's repulsive," said Danny.

"Truth," said Stiles.

Scott shook his head. "I still think it's weird."

"It is," said Allison.

"Welcome to the world, kiddies," said Jackson, picking up his fork again, probably just to wave it around. "But hey, you don't want to bare a little neck in exchange for billions of credits, freaking ridiculous political power, and a genetically perfect spouse, by all means"—he stabbed at a spear of broccoli—"don't."

"It's not that easy," said Danny. "And it's not like he'll pick one of us. He'll take an LP. A VSHS, worst case."

Jackson raised a dubious eyebrow, and, though it rankled, Stiles had to agree. Danny, Allison, Jackson… _Lydia_. God, even Scott had a chance.

Not Stiles, though. He was pure, unadulterated homo sapien. One-hundred percent natural, that's him, complete with ADHD and a family history of cancer and heart disease. No reason for Derek to give him a glance. No chance at all. 

He definitely was not disappointed.

*

The calls started in English with Alyssa Shapiro, a pretty WOLPH from the front row. Scott's didn't come until Economics. Coach Finstock barely looked up from the board, just shouted at Scott to come get his pass. He waved a hand when Stiles asked to use the bathroom, and Stiles took that for assent.

"Holy shit," said Stiles, staring at the pass. "Seriously." 

Scott shrugged. "It's gonna be a short interview. 'Hey, I'm not into dick. Bye.'"

Stiles rolled his entire head on his shoulders, his eyes insufficient for the task. "This is your chance, dude."

"To what? I don't care how hot he is; I'm not gonna be into him." 

"No—Christ—look at the big picture. You have at least, what, fifteen minutes? Alone. With one of the most influential LPs in California."

"What am I supposed to do with that?" 

"Dude." Stiles wanted to stretch out of his skin with energy; he wanted to shake Scott so hard the pieces would snap into place in his head. "You know what you could do with that. You _know_." Stiles gave him an eyebrow wiggle.

Scott glanced around. "I'm just supposed to trust somebody with…? Are you crazy?"

"When else will you get a chance at this?"

Scot groaned. "Stiles," he said, "all I want is to get through today, okay? Just get through today, and go home, and, like, v-chat Allison. That's it." 

"Dude, you got her number?"

"Maybe."

Stiles socked him in the shoulder. "Awesome." 

"Yeah," said Scott. "She's pretty great. Her mom's the guidance counselor, though, so, like, parents everywhere. Always."

"Wait, wait, the guidance counselor? As in redheaded, glare-of-death, wants-your-pelt-for-her-playpen counselor?" 

"I guess? But she can't hate me yet, dude, she doesn't even know I exist. Me and Allison, like, aren't there." 

"Yeah, I know, you met this morning. I was present. In attendance. Me. Right next to you."

"Oh, right."

Stiles chuffed. " _Oh, right_."

Scott spared him half a smile, but then they were at a classroom—in the lab hall, Stiles noticed. Scott knocked on the door. The people inside must of said something, because he slumped into a plastic chair stationed under the doorplate. 

"What?" said Stiles, leaning up against the wall. "What do your VALPHS ears hear?" 

"We wait."

Stiles sighed. "Waiting."

"You should go back to class."

"My bag's there. That's good enough for Finstock."

Five minutes later, Scott rose from his seat. Sophia from the track team shuffled out. Scott shut the door behind him.

*

Ten eternities later, Scott emerged from the chemistry lab. Stiles lurched to his feet.

"So?" said Stiles, crowding Scott's shoulder. 

Scott put a finger to his lips, and they walked together past the science classrooms. When they emerged into the central stairway, Stiles overflowed. 

" _So?_ "

"Exactly what I told you." Scott shrugged. "'Hey, hello, not into dick.' And he was all, 'Oh, indeed, toodle-pip, very good, cheerio.'"

"Your English accent is terrible."

"My English accent is _grand_."

"Stop."

Scott laughed. "It was no big deal, dude." He clapped Stiles on the shoulder. "He was sort of a butt, to be honest."

"A butt."

"Yeah. A butt. Like…gloomy. Butt-like."

"A butt. Hale. A Hale butt. Derek _Hale_ was a butt."

"Yes. What do you want, a play-by-play?"

"Something more than, 'butt,' maybe?" 

Scott tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He looked a bit like Stiles' dad, searching for patience. Stiles gnawed on a thumbnail.

"Scott?"

"What? What is it? How can I help you?" 

Stiles bit a cuticle. 

"No, really, tell me. That's all you seem to care about lately, so go on. Ask." 

"Um, okay, Mr. McMoodSwing, pack it in. Not your time of the month yet."

"Stiles…"

"I mean, it's not like I haven't seen you since June or anything. Not like I haven't had the entire summer to think of questions that no one was around to answer, or to…." Stiles shook his head, trailing off. 

"Phone works both ways."

Stiles felt acid irritation in his chest, burning, making words. A feeling, dark and fermented, pushed the words up his throat. "I'm so glad to hear you say that; I really am. I was worried you'd forgotten how to operate a push. But I guess that's what happens when you get a May Lane address. Totally understandable. Yeah. I bet you start forgetting there's even a world out there east of Vernon Street."

Scott's eyebrows met over his nose. He looked at Stiles, disbelieving. "You know it's not like that." 

"I don't know what it's like," Stiles snapped. 

Scott stopped walking. His lips thinned and Stiles could hear the tightness in his jaw when he spoke. "Fine. This what you want? Open freaking book, Stiles. Please, tell me how my fucked up life can feed your curiosity."

"Your fucked up life?" Stiles scoffed. "What? Like, what's happened to you, Scott? Other than becoming a superhero, and a lacrosse savant, moving into a huge house, and picking up numbers from hot VSHS girls without trying? Like, wow, that's your big tragedy? Lemme get the Kleenex."

"You think that's what this is? Some sort of…" Scott jerked his shoulder forward, his backpack jumping with the force, the strap straining. "You want the Bite so bad, you go roll over." He pointed down the hall. "You go be Hale's bitch, you think it's such a privilege."

"I don't want fucking… _Hale_ , and I sure as hell don't want the Bite, and you know it. I'd never take it. Ever."

"And what, I wanted it? I didn't choose this. This happened _to_ me, and _you_ know it."

 

"Hasn't stopped you from milking it, has it? No, I don't think so. You're one of them, now. You're _in_. Better hurry up and tell Jackson how your interview went. Better go show him how fucking cool you are. Yeah, look how much you don't give a fuck; _you're Scott McCall_."

Stiles could see the words drain out of Scott's head like air into a vacuum, like rage had ripped open the system they'd circled through, and now the life-support was all twisted and messed up and gone. "Fuck _you_ ," Scott growled, his puppy-brown eyes hinting tangerine. 

"Yeah, well"—Stiles huffed, fighting the heat on his neck, and the knot in his throat, and the stupid salt stinging the back of his stupid eyes—"fuck you back."

"You need to calm down," said a voice from beyond Stiles' shoulder. 

Scott glared at the intrusion, but Stiles startled and stared. Derek Hale emerged from behind the classroom door. He frowned, his bold eyebrows tilted in such a way that he was either terribly concerned for their safety or on the doorstep of pissed. 

For all Stiles had seen the Hales countless times on the v-feed, and he'd spent more than a little bit of time staring at Derek Hale's inhumanly sculpted ass, seeing the VLPH up-close and personal was a different experience. For one thing, Stiles was shocked to hear Hale's voice was smooth and higher pitched than Stiles', not the gravelly rumble the width of his shoulders and radiating gloom suggested. All too easily, Stiles could imagine it gone breathy—desperate—slight and begging—and goddamn being seventeen, because Stiles was eighty-percent sure he now smelled like angry boner, which could not have been subtle. 

"I'm fine," Scott snarled. 

"No. You." Hale stared into Stiles' eyes. "You're aggravating the others." 

The others? What— Stiles realized where they stood, and the acoustics of the main stairwell, and how difficult it must be for an LP to listen to a pre-calculus lecture with he and Scott mid-meltdown outside. 

Stiles realized his hands were shaking. Damn it—why couldn't he be cool for once? "Fine," he bit out, looking at the floor and not— _not_ —at Scott or Hale. 

"I'm going to class," said Scott, and stalked down the hallway. 

Stiles glared at the tiles. He waited until he couldn't hear Scott's footfalls, and then turned to follow. 

"You okay?" 

"Fine."

"Hey," said Hale, like he was trying to get Stiles' attention, but Stiles didn't need a lecture, or a pep talk, or whatever the fuck it was that Hale was about to do, so he kept walking. 

" _Hey_." And that 'hey' came with a VLPH-warm hand on Stiles' shoulder. 

  
"What?" Stiles snapped, jerking away from Derek's grasp. 

"Did you mean that?"

"Which part?"

"You don't want the Bite." 

Stiles' eyes narrowed. Hale probably expected him to take it back; probably expected Stiles to eat his words in the face of his betters, like a fake apology from a spanked little boy. Stiles lifted his chin. 

"Yeah, I meant it. I don't want the Bite—never have, never will." 

"Not even if you were dying," Hale insisted. "Not even for that."

It didn't sound like a question, but Hale stared at him as if he expected an answer, and Stiles never had a problem talking, especially not when he needed a distraction from his heart pounding in his chest like a jogger on bane.

"Never," Stiles said. "I'd rather die human." And yeah, that last part was maybe not the best call, because there was no real cultural consensus on what sort of humanoids qualified as 'human', and implying somebody didn't qualify was a good way to get your ass kicked by a genetic marvel. 

Hale didn't seem fazed. In fact, his eyebrows straightened a few degrees. His frown shrank. His stare turned…Stiles didn't know. Hale's eyes scanned down Stiles' body, not glaring, but not quite leering. It was more assessing, and appreciative, than either.

It was creepy as fuck. 

And now Stiles definitely smelled like boner. 

"I gotta go," said Stiles, ducking away from Hale, trying to hide the blush that slunk from his ears to his cheeks.

He high-tailed it to economics and slipped into his seat with seven minutes to spare in the period. Finstock glared, but dealt no detention. Stiles tried not to think about Scott's anger, or his humiliation in front of Hale, or really anything for the rest of the day.

*

Driving east was akin to watching a time-lapse video of a flower blooming—in reverse. The houses shrank. The green of the grass dimmed. The cars grew scars and aged. It seemed windier. Vulgar flags, bright with sports logos, struggled for freedom on porches cluttered with tricycles and mismatched furniture. Sprinklers with kinked tails watered lawns the color of mottled, under-ripe pears.

Stiles parked the Throwback on the too-steep driveway in front of Casa de Stilinski. He tripped over the grass growing from the crack near the mailbox, and cursed, because he always did. 'Always' being every day this week—every day since he'd requested the prospectuses. It was the first time in his life he was getting real, physical mail delivered. 

He paused a moment when he opened the box, the smell of plastic wafting out. He pulled out the thickest booklet and ran his fingers over the embossed lettering at the top: Pennsylvania State University, one of the only eastern universities that offered scholarships for CoPA citizens. Scott's copy probably went to his old address. 

Whatever. 

"Evening, Stiles," said Mr. Friedricks. He stood in the driveway across the street, hunched over the bare engine of his classic Mustang. 

Stiles waved, and tucked the prospectus under his arm, cover hidden against his side.

*

The Sheriff walked through the door and ladled out a bowl of the soup left on the stove. Stiles hollered hello from the living room.

"How was school?"

Stiles grunted.

His dad ruffled his hair as he passed behind the couch, and Stiles rolled his head up for a brief acknowledgement. His economics book lay ignored near his left hand. The v-feed played in the background, but Stiles returned his attention to the tablet balanced on his knees. His dad switched the feed to NBCNN.

On the screen, Laura Hale smiled for the cameras, haloed by stage lights. 

"That looks like your school."

Stiles grunted again. 

"That's pretty exciting."

"It was a real privilege. I can't even tell you."

His father shot him a look, but it was just as amused as it was censoring. 

The image changed to the memorial fountain in the center of The Park. A crowd of people surrounded a podium—B-roll of the official Lib-Day memorial. The reporter mumbled over the top about the progress of Laura's campaign. Thirty seconds later, the story changed, and low-quality footage of a riot replaced the videos of smiling LP families. 

"In Philadelphia, ten men abducted a teenage boy from his family's downtown apartment…"

Shimmering metal walls rose from red cobbled roads. A crowd surged in towards the center of the street, pressing in on a huddled figure. He stood about Scott's height. The camera came in tight on him, searching for his face, but not finding it—hidden by the black hood cinched around his neck. In flashes, between the limbs of the people crowding him and the burly men that held him by the elbows, Stiles could see the boy's bound wrists and his red, 'Class of '78' sweatshirt; his stomach swelled against the fabric, round and full. 

"—group, The Fraternity of Man, posted footage of the attack on their website, with the caption, 'Now that's what I call a riot.'"

Three LPs close to the center of the crowd threw people back¬¬¬¬—waves on boulders. The feed flashed yellow when a woman's eyes caught the recorder. 

A smoke bomb exploded. Purple fog rushed through thrashing bodies—bane-bombs, obvious from the lavender color, and the way the LPs began to stumble and fall. HSs pulled their shirts over their noses, but plenty of them fell too. Stiles watched as the mob tossed the LPs aside and overwhelmed the boy in the center. 

"—when questioned about the incident's resemblance to the lynching of Sean McCormick…"

A skinny, bearded man's face took up the screen. He wore a baggy black t-shirt, printed on it the white silhouettes of a man and woman, hand in hand, walking away from a stylized sun. "Perversions all die the same way," said the man, a happy sneer on his lips, "and that's at the hands of pure men." 

Abruptly, he disappeared, replaced by film of a harried Laura Hale. Reporters bombarded her with questions as she strode away, flanked by her staff and her scowling brother. They wore the same clothing they had on the stage of Hale Prep. 

Derek's face caught the recorder just as the Hales disappeared into a waiting town car. Hazel eyes burned with resentment, lighting up the feed like a match to the fuse of a cartoon bomb. Stiles' stomach clenched. 

"—not available for comment. The victim has been naturally stabilized in a healing coma, but doctors are unsure when, or if, he will wake. The survival of the child—"

"And that's about enough of that," said the Sheriff. He switched to Double2 Sports. 

Many minutes later, he spoke again. "Sometimes…" said the Sheriff, shaking his head. His tone was too solemn for the LP basketball on the feed. 

"Yeah," said Stiles. 

"I'll tell you what, though: I would not want Laura Hale's job. Not for ten million credits."

Stiles thought about Derek's scowl as he subtly shielded his sister from the cameras. "At least she can do something."

"Like what? Secede? Read us a bedtime story?" 

Stiles shrugged. He didn't want to argue with his dad. Not today. He let the conversation lapse. His dad watched the rest of the basketball game, and Stiles flicked through the headline news on his tablet, bookmarking articles for later review. 

The Penn State prospectus lay upstairs, safely hidden in the bottom drawer of Stiles' desk.

*

Tuesday. The class blocks switched, and he and Scott only had chemistry together. For the first time since sixth grade, Stiles and Scott were not lab partners. Scott slumped into a seat next to a tall, blonde VLPH named Lehigh, or Lowry, or something like that. The kid glanced back at Stiles over Scott's shoulder, a crease between his eyebrows, but when Scott started to unpack his notebook, the crease smoothed out. He smiled at Scott shyly.

Asshole. 

Stiles sat by himself at lunch, his tablet perched in his left hand. He didn't look up at all, not even when he heard Jackson's laughter braying over the top of feminine giggles and Scott's familiar guffaws. 

If the LPs huddled a little closer together in the lunchroom that day, it was probably just a coincidence. Confirmation bias, Stiles thought, as he tossed his trash and marched past an LP table beside the cafeteria doors. An LP he recognized from the basketball team flashed her eyes at him, but that could have been for anything. Really, he was an annoying little shit; that was no secret. 

In English, he found himself rubbing his fingers on his neck, imagining the pull of a drawstring. He picked up his stylus and opened a doodle app, just to keep his fingers occupied. 

When English finally let out, Stiles bullied his way through the halls, intent on getting to the gym. He borrowed a lacrosse stick and a dozen balls from the equipment room, and grabbed his pads from the back of the Throwback. His old gear reeked, but if he loosened the straps, it still fit. He spent two hours running the twin fields and lobbing practice shots at the net. 

He'd make first line this year if it killed him.

*

Thursday.

He saw Scott running on the soccer field. Scott didn't look towards the track, where the HS class was doing warm up laps. Maybe this is what Scott wanted after all, Stiles thought. He was probably the last of Scott's HS baggage, and—what luck—he'd conveniently unloaded himself. 

Stiles pushed himself to stay in the front of the pack this time, concentrating on his feet hitting the ground in the right place, pushing off as quickly as possible. Jackson, on the other hand, jogged at a pace suspiciously non-indicative of his insecure attachment issues—moderately fast, right in line with Lydia's gaggle of sequenced girls. Stiles trailed them by a few yards. 

"Greenberg's parents are gone, and they have, like, a massive bar," said Jackson. "They won't even notice shit's gone."

"Libations do not a party make," said Lydia. 

"Obviously. But his pool is ridiculous. It's Olympic standard with, like, boulders, and underwater stools, and crap."

A freckled VSHS jogging beside Jackson made a sound in the back of her throat. "I hate pool parties. Speedos are a privilege, okay? Some people just do not get that."

"So don't go," said Lydia. 

"That's not what I said," Freckles snapped.

"Well, I'm definitely going," said another girl, jogging between Allison and Lydia. "I love pools."

"So it's gonna be the lacrosse guys and maybe some of the basketball starters," said Jackson, ignoring everyone who wasn't a strawberry blonde goddess. 

"Perfect," said Lydia. "We can all get a little better acquainted. How's that sound, Allison?" 

Allison fought her smile, but even from yards behind her, Stiles could see her teeth flash and her head turn toward the soccer field. "Good," she said. She glanced over at Lydia. "I mean, it'll be nice to…know more people?"

"Uh-huh," said Lydia. 

Allison glanced back at Stiles, and Lydia followed her gaze. Lydia snapped her eyes back to the track, but she didn't comment.

Stiles didn't need Lydia's cold shoulder to know he didn't qualify as one of the 'lacrosse guys'.

*

Stiles turned his phone off as soon as he strapped on the chest pad. Scott hadn't texted him, hadn't spoken to him, though there had been some supremely awkward eye contact when their backpacks tangled together in English.

Shy-eyed Lowry was probably Scott's plus one to the stupid party.

Stiles' shot hit the back of the net with a satisfying _fwoop_.

He played until the custodian flagged him down and told him to bring the balls in; they had to lock up for the night.

The sky glowed dove-violet as Stiles tossed his kit in the back of the Throwback and slammed the driver's side door. He turned his phone on and threw it in the passenger's seat, only to pause with his thumb on the ignition push when his missed call alert beeped, and beeped again. Then his phone vibrated across the seat like water in hot oil. Stiles snatched it up. 

Seven missed calls—Stiles' heart crashed like a cymbal. Two from his dad's phone and three from an unknown number. 

Stiles didn't bother to check the messages, just held his breath as his father's phone rang, and only let it out when the line connected. The Sheriff scowled at him on the v-feed. 

"Where are you?" his father demanded. 

"At school," said Stiles, "I was practicing. What's wrong? You—"

"I called you half a dozen times, where was your phone?"

Stiles rolled his eyes and tapped the last of his anxiety out with his fingers on the steering wheel. "Next time I'll tuck it in my jock, just in case you call for a reason that is apparently not mortal peril." 

The Sheriff sighed, and Stiles watched the ravines appear in his forehead. Stiles knew he should wait the silence out, but his fingers started tapping again, and then his thoughts clanked and clobbered each other until he let out an impatient huff. His father shot him a look, but Stiles saw the smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth. 

"How do you know Derek Hale?" 

Stiles squinted at the screen. "How do non sequitur what?"

The smirk had emerged from hiding; it had more than emerged, it had come out, like a debutante. His father had a coming out ball on his face, and it was undignified for someone of his advanced years. 

"How. Do you. Know Derek Hale." 

"I don't."

"His assistant called the house." 

Stiles blinked. 

"To set up an interview." 

"A what?"

"An interview." 

"For…a job?" 

The Sheriff studied him. "Why were the Hales at your school on Monday?" 

And then Stiles recognized his situation: he was being interrogated. "The Governor gave a speech." 

His dad raised an eyebrow. 

"And," said Stiles, relenting, "Derek Hale was possibly meeting with potential mates." 

"And he met _you_?"

"Wow, thanks for the tone there, Dad of the Year."

"You're a very pretty boy, Stiles. Answer the question." 

Stiles rubbed a hand over his chin and looked out the passenger side window. "I dunno, sorta? He saw me. I didn't think he knew my name or anything."

"But you didn't _meet_?"

"What, like, formally?"

"Yes, Stiles, 'like, formally.'"

"Sarcasm? In a man of your age?"

"Why are you giving me a hard time?" The Sheriff's eyes narrowed. 

"When do I not give—"

"Did something happen?" 

"No. Jesus. He didn't ask for me or anything. We just…passed in the hall. I have no idea why they'd be calling for a meeting…interview…thing."

The Sheriff hummed like that answer was only provisionally accepted. After a moment's thought, he sighed, and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "They asked for a call back. You give 'em a call tomorrow, and that's that." He hadn't asked a question, but the look he gave Stiles demanded an answer. 

Stiles squirmed. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't thought about this; he hadn't considered what he'd do. He didn't want the Bite, that he knew, but he couldn't help but remember what Lydia had said that day in the cafeteria. She was right: who wouldn't want to be a Hale? 

But that was, like, two billion steps ahead of a phone call with an assistant. He had ADHD for god's sake, he was hardly fit to raise the next generation of LP royalty. And that's what LP mating was about: the next generation—the 'Ideal Lifecycle'. Ick. And also, laughable. Whatever Stiles was—and he had some not inconsiderable charms, thank you very much—he was not 'ideal'.

"It's a PR thing, anyway," said Stiles. 

His dad's eyebrows crumpled together. 

"When whatever sequenced heiress they pick becomes Mrs. Derek Hale, it'll look better if they've at least considered someone like me, right? Somethin' like forty-percent of Laura Hale's base is unsequenced." 

"Maybe," said the Sheriff, as if he didn't like the taste of the word. 

"It'll be fine. It'll be a great story. 'Hey, remember that time I almost became an LP-American-Princess? Oh, but to have those thighs again.'" Stiles smiled, but his dad didn't. 

"I need you to be smart about this, kid."

Instead of rolling his eyes, which would only aggravate his dad more, Stiles bumped his head back against the seat and looked at the ceiling. "I think I can handle a conversation." 

Eyes crawling over the ceiling, Stiles noticed the faded interior of the Throwback drooped near the passenger window. Stiles leaned over to fiddle with it. 

"Stiles, _listen_ to me," said his dad, and his tone was not jovial, so Stiles slumped back into the driver's seat and looked at the feed. 

"Do not mess around here." The Sheriff's forehead kept its creases, his light eyes intent on Stiles. "This is serious for them. If they're calling you at home, it's more than a meet and greet. It means you're on a list, and that's never good. You do not want special attention from these people."

Stiles decided it was the wrong time to mention his three other missed calls. 

"Understand?"

Discounting cosmetic politics, the whole idea of the Hales having any sort of interest in him at all was absurd. Stiles wanted to say so. But he knew this phone call wouldn't end until his dad was satisfied, and, 'Father, you are perhaps overestimating my sex appeal,' was not the answer the Sheriff wanted. 

Stiles nodded. "I get it. I do. Promise."

"Fine." The Sheriff nodded back. "Pick up some Thai on your way home. All we've got in the house is ketchup and tuna."

*

Twice that night Stiles picked up his phone to text Scott with his hypotheses concerning the family Hale. Both times, he tossed his phone away, face twisted into a sneer.

*

By Friday lunch, it's officially the longest Stiles and Scott have ever gone without speaking. It's also officially stupid, Stiles thought. But something stopped him from snagging a spot at the sequenced table. Maybe it was the way Scott's eyes skidded nervously away from him when Stiles hovered too long with his tray, trying to decide where to eat.

Instead, Stiles staked out a corner of an adjacent table and stared at his math homework, sandwich in one hand, pencil twisting in the fingers of the other. He unabashedly eavesdropped on Scott's conversation, listening for anything half-interesting, but most of it was whining about having a math test the first week of school, with a liberal sprinkling of bashful flirting with Allison. Stiles tuned it out and was half-done with his page of calculus when he heard 'Derek Hale' said in Jackson's haughty drawl. Stiles twitched, nearly snapping his pencil in half. 

"—second meeting set up for Saturday," said Jackson. "I guess he liked what he saw." 

"Don't be gross," said Danny. "This whole process is creepy enough to begin with." 

Stiles privately seconded Danny's sentiment, but he could practically feel Jackson rolling his eyes. Stiles shifted on the bench, subtly angling himself for a better view of the sequenced table. All he could see was Jackson's smug profile and Lydia Martin's clenched jaw. Anger flared in Stiles on her behalf. 

Apparently, Scott thought similarly, because Stiles saw him frown at Jackson, eyes flicking towards Lydia. "But you wouldn't actually say yes, right? I mean, like, interview or whatever, sure, but you wouldn't really…?"

"Bet your ass I would, and so would anybody with two brain cells to rub together." 

Lydia blinked rapidly and leaned away from the table, digging in her purse and letting her hair fall briefly in front of her face. She reemerged with a mirror in one hand and lipgloss in the other, making it impossible to tell if her eyes had ever so much as glistened.

She rubbed her lips together and checked the mirror. "Well, let's just be sure we don't put all our eggs in one basket," she said. "I know I won't."

Jackson rolled his eyes, and the talk shifted to the party on Friday. The party Stiles would not be attending, because apparently he didn't rate an invitation. 

But Hale seemed to think Stiles rated differently. He wondered what Jackson would say if he knew about Stiles' interview. He imagined Jackson's pinched little face, the same one he'd worn in the fourth grade when he'd been eliminated from the spelling bee, and the one he wore now when Danny blocked his shots during practice. 

It was a nice thought.

*

The grass smelled wet and earthy as it crushed beneath Stiles' shoes, matting down into slippery plant tiles as Stiles practiced his footwork. He wove back and forth across the field, dodging imaginary defenders as he approached the goal. Sliding just barely on his left foot, Stiles shot the lacrosse ball into the net, feeling a dulled sense of accomplishment, considering there was no defender.

Somebody started clapping from the edge of the field. Stiles turned¬¬¬¬: Scott.

Stiles plucked the ball out of the net and trudged back across the field. 

"You're getting good," said Scott. He fidgeted with the straps of his backpack.

"So, are we talking now?" said Stiles. 

Scott tensed, but then sighed, smoothing a hand over his hair. "I dunno. Yeah?"

Stiles raised an eyebrow. 

"Look, it's¬¬—" Scott shrugged. "I'm just trying to deal with this, okay? I just…I'm trying to deal with this, and it's hard, and I...sort of need you to be talking to me." 

"Didn't seem so hard the other day." 

"Stiles—"

"Didn't seem that hard all summer, actually." Stiles pretended to inspect the lacing of his crosse, not looking at Scott's expression. 

"Dude, I was at The Center all summer." 

"They don't have phones there?"

Scott looked out across the field, and Stiles hated that look: the one that meant there was something Scott wasn't going to say because he thought Stiles wasn't up to hearing it. It was the same look the doctor had worn when Stiles visited his mother in the hospital; it was the same look his therapist had worn when she'd diagnosed him with ADHD; it was the same look the Sheriff wore when he talked to Stiles about going to college in CoPA. 

"It's fine," said Stiles, woodenly, because it wasn't fine, and they both knew it wasn't fine, but Stiles didn't do well with expectant silence. "You were trying to get used to LP whatever-ness. I would've been in the way. I get it." 

"That's not it," said Scott, but he didn't sound as sure as Stiles would have liked. "I mean, yeah, they were teaching me things and, like, training me and stuff, but it was…I didn't want to see anybody. Not even mom. It wasn't about you. You just gotta trust me on that." 

This time Scott wouldn't meet Stiles' eyes. Finally, Stiles nodded. "Okay." 

"And maybe, if you could…lay off the questions. For a while." 

Stiles shot Scott an incredulous look, and Scott rolled his eyes, beginning to smile. 

"Please?" said Scott. 

Stiles sighed gustily. "I'll try to contain my enthusiasm." 

"Gee, thanks," said Scott, and gave a proper smile. Stiles felt remarkably lightened, beginning to quirk one in return. 

"One more question, though, before my vows of inquisitorial celibacy." 

"Dude—"

"One!"

"Fine. What?" 

"The house—it's from the Hales, isn't it?" 

Scott sucked on his lip for a moment, then shrugged. "From Tris. Technically." 

"Tris? As in the Triskele Experimental Station?" 

Scott shrugged again.

"So it is from the Hales," said Stiles triumphantly. He twisted his hands on his crosse, the familiar thrum of a hunch making him want to bounce on his heels. "Was it a payoff? Did they do it at The Center? Did you talk to an actual Hale?" 

"It was part of an established housing program for fresh ALP, and you said one."

"Dude, come on." 

"I don't want to talk about this here," said Scott, shooting significant glances to their right and left. He was right; it was impossible to tell if there were any other LPs lurking about, unless Scott wanted to go sniff out the perimeter to be sure. 

"But—"

" _Stiles_."

"They still don't know who bit you, do they?" 

Scott glared. Quietly, he said, "They know it wasn't Hale." 

Scott wouldn't say more about it, and Stiles didn’t badger him, careful not to wreck what they'd just rebuilt. Besides, Stiles thought, if he wanted answers about a rogue alpha roaming Hale territory, Scott was not the one to ask.

*

It was six o'clock when Stiles called the unknown number on his phone. Late. Maybe too late. Stiles tapped a harried tattoo on his knee as the call connected.

A pretty woman in a business suit appeared on his screen. "Thank you for calling Hale Corp. Our business hours are Monday through Friday, eight—" 

Stiles ended the call. He pressed the phone against his chin. "Fuck," he said. 

His phone vibrated. 

Stiles nearly dropped it, but kept the device off the ground with an impressive flailing of limbs. He managed to get the phone propped up against his knees and pushed the receive button on the v-chat. The same pretty redhead who'd starred in the recording appeared on Stiles' phone. 

"Hello there! Is this Stiles Stilinski?"

"Yeah. Hello. I just—"

"We saw your call," said the woman, chirruping right over Stiles' mumbles. "We're so glad to get ahold of you."

"I guess I've been sorta busy." 

"Of course." Her smile never lost its vibrancy. "Well, we were calling in regards to your introduction with Mr. Hale the other day." 

"My…introduction."

"Yes. We would like to invite you this Saturday to—"

"Yes," said Stiles, and for the first time, the woman paused. She tilted her head, considering, as if Stiles had interrupted her script, and she was deciding whether to laugh it off or slaughter the infidel. 

"Yes?" she said at last. 

"Yes," Stiles repeated. "I will come in for the interview-thing." 

"Oh." Her smile returned. "Of course. In that case, what time would be most convenient for you?"

"Uh, I—"

"We do have an open slot Saturday afternoon, around one. Would that be convenient?"

"Sure," said Stiles. He'd be up by then. 

"Excellent. One o'clock at the Hale Corp offices downtown. Give your name at the desk, and they'll show you right up. Do you need the address?" 

Hale Tower was the tallest building in Beacon Hills. 

"I'll Google it," said Stiles, and tried a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. 

"Fantastic. See you tomorrow." Click. She disappeared. 

Stiles licked his lips. Tomorrow. 

A few hours later, he glanced at the clock: ten. Vaulting off his bed, Stiles grabbed his keys and thundered down the stairs. There was a party at Greenberg's, and he was officially Scott McCall's plus one.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Political violence, mentions of mpreg—there is a news story that briefly describes a riot and implies the lynching of a pregnant teenage boy. There is a speech made that describes the lynching of a pregnant teenage boy. 
> 
> The 'mildly dubious consent' tag refers to the fact that Derek uses a lot of different techniques of coercion in order to get Stiles in a relationship with him. Stiles enters the relationship of his own free will, but it's doubtful that he would have agreed to a relationship or sex with Derek without the other mitigating factors. The emotions are tangled up, so I put the tag up just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien  
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien  
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien  
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien

Stiles hummed along to the radio as he scooted the Throwback through downtown traffic. He felt sort of used and scraped out, like a carcass, the way he usually did the day after too much alcohol. Thankfully, he'd chugged enough water the previous night to avoid a serious hangover. Scott would not be so lucky, Stiles thought, remembering how Lydia had pressed cup after cup of spiked beer into Scott's hand. Banebrew was a guaranteed day-after migraine, or so Stiles had heard. On the up side, Scott and Allison had looked very cozy in their corner, leaning so close together that tendrils of her hair curled on Scott's jacket. 

Meanwhile, Stiles spent most of the night holding up a wall, though after a few cups of Lydia's HS punch, he gathered his Dutch courage, splashed into the water, and made some of the track girls giggle. Better than staying at home. Probably. If nothing else, Lydia had glided around the pool in a forest green bikini. He'd filed that image away for later review. 

He turned into the parking garage beneath Hale Tower. The spots nearest the elevator had signs posted—reserved for this Vice President and that Director. Stiles parked in an unmarked space between two sleek town cars. He gave his Jeep a friendly pat as he clambered down from the driver's seat, careful not to swing his door too wide, lest he ruin a custom paint job. 

The interior of Hale Tower matched its slick, haughty exterior. Stiles pushed his hands in his pockets as he shuffled through the threat-detectors. His shoes—his nicest pair of sneakers—made soft snapping sounds on the tile. He passed between two long grey sofas, flawlessly placed, and as impersonal as bus stops. 

At the lobby desk, an underling perched atop an ergonomic desk chair and spoke rapidly into his minimalist headset. The desk was too tall for Stiles to rest his elbows. Instead, he tapped his fingers against the cool, brushed metal, feeling like a child at a bar. The receptionist smiled apologetically in his direction, gesturing toward the headset. Stiles nodded, and tapped harder. 

"Yes, hello?" said the man, once he'd transferred his call. 

"Yeah, hi. I'm, uh, Stiles." 

The man's smile grew strained. "Yes?" 

"Stilinski," said Stiles. "Stiles Stilinski. That's me. Stirred, not shaken." 

"Okay." 

"I have an appointment?" 

"With…?"

"I…don't actually…I'm here about the mate thing?" 

The man's smile dropped off his face, and his eyes widened. "Of course. _Stilinski_. God, I— well. Just one moment, please."

"Thanks," said Stiles, unsettled by the man's distress. 

"Miranda will be right down. If you'd like to take a seat?" 

Stiles nodded and turned to the long grey couches, but he'd barely touched his back to the tasteful throw pillows before a woman—the same redheaded, heart-faced assistant Stiles had spoken to on the phone—emerged from behind the tinted f-barrier that divided the lobby from the elevators. 

"Stiles!" She smiled, opening her arms and hands as if he were a rabbit she'd pulled out of her hat.

"Hello," said Stiles, slipping off the couch, weakly imitating her gesture. _Tada_.

"Right on time— _bravo_." She ducked her chin as she smiled, looking up at him as if Stiles had accomplished some incredible feat of cleverness that only the two of them were privy to. 

Miranda turned on her heel and slipped back through the f-barrier.

*

Thirty floors later, Miranda invited Stiles to have a seat at a massive glass conference table. She clicked the door shut, and the glass walls frosted over, offering them at least some measure of privacy. Sound dampening came standard in high-end offices, and Hale Tower was nothing if not high-end.

Miranda tapped on the glass table with a stylus, pulling up a note app. She twirled the stylus between her manicured fingers while she asked him about his day, how school was going, and whether he liked Hale Prep's chances at the state lacrosse crown. The longer the chitchat went on, the more clipped Stiles' answers became.

Eventually, the woman did move on to more pertinent questions, though they started innocent enough: where did Stiles want to go to college? (He hadn't decided yet.) What sort of career did he see himself pursuing? (Something in criminal justice, though if he became a cop, his dad would probably shoot him.) What kind of people did he usually date? (Yeah, he was totally into dudes, no worries.) And so on. 

Every so often, after Stiles answered a question with deadpan snark, instead of scowling at him in annoyance, Miranda's lips would curl like the new fronds of a fern, as if she knew something he didn't, and it made her very happy. 

Another of her habits was to pepper the conversation with tidbits about Derek: 'Derek played basketball in high school.' 'Derek hates the beach; he's so bizarre sometimes.' 'Derek would love that!' 'You know some people think LPs have naturally perfect pitch, but it's not true at all. Derek can't tell opera from auto-pop.' 'You're a very quick young man, Stiles. Good thing I know a VLPH who likes 'em smart.' Stiles wanted to find it annoying and cloying, but despite himself, he was charmed. Miranda's eyes turned lambent when she said Derek's name; her delicate hands splayed and twisted in her enthusiasm. She was clearly smitten, and Stiles couldn't help but wonder why she wasn't on The List. 

Miranda had just discovered Stiles' ignorance about Derek's college basketball career ("You know, Stiles, some of my interviewees actually do a little research beforehand."), when they were both startled out of the conversation by the opening of the door. The walls turned transparent. Through the door stepped Peter Hale. 

Peter dressed more casually today—his office oxford folded up to his elbows—but he wore the same smirk that he had on the stage of Hale Prep. 

"I hope you don't mind," said Peter, addressing Stiles. "I saw the conference room was in use, and when I heard who we had the pleasure of entertaining, I had to come see for myself." 

Stiles looked to Miranda, uneasy, and saw that her eyes had gone very round, and her hand had tightened on her stylus. 

Not such a friendly visit, then. 

After a moment of awkward silence, Peter jerked forward. Stiles jumped. 

"Peter Hale," he said, smirking. He offered his hand.

"Stiles Stilinski," said Stiles, and kept their handshake brief. Peter's palm was much too warm. Stiles fought the urge to lower his eyes as Peter continued to stare down at him.

"Indeed," said Peter. His eyes crawled from Stiles' eyes to his knees. The back of Stiles' neck prickled. 

Miranda smothered a nervous bark of laughter. "I wish I'd known you were, ah, planning to assist, Mr. Hale, I could have prepared…that is, I could have prepared—"

"I promise, Miss Lomax, when I next require preparation for an interview with a seventeen-year-old, you will be my first call." Peter slithered into a chair much closer to Stiles' side of the table than Miranda's. 

Miranda licked her lips and visibly fought her indignation. "Unfortunately, these interviews are the private affairs of Mr. Derek Hale, and as he has entrusted them to me, I—"

"My dear Miss Lomax, my nephew has never arranged so much as a doctor's appointment. I scheduled this meeting." 

Stiles felt a chill run through him. 

"At his request." Finally, he turned his eyes away from Stiles, and smiled tightly at the agitated assistant. She pursed her lips, but remained silent. 

"Well, I'm here now," said Stiles, urgent to turn Peter's focus from Miranda. "What do you want to know? More about my favorite colors? My sign? I'm a Scorpio, FYI."

Peter's smile was scant as sun through cell bars. "Clever," he said, the way one might praise a dog that's learned to roll over. He tilted his head and rested the weight of his chin on his hand. "Clever, but…." 

"But?"

"You," said Peter. "You're adorable, obviously. But…mouthy. Skinny. And…well." 

"Mr. Hale, _please_ ," said Miranda, the words barely escaping her clenched jaw. 

Indignation swiftly subsumed his shock. While some part of him clung to Peter's words—Stiles' certain inadequacy was much more comfortable than his insecurity—the rest of him clenched like his fists. Words dove for his tongue like eagles on fish. 

"And what?" Stiles snapped. Miranda stared at him, but Peter's smirk broadened. 

"Hm?" Peter made an inquisitive noise to match the arch of his eyebrow. 

"And what?" said Stiles. "Which part, specifically?" He glared straight into Hale's eyes. "The ADHD? The history of heart disease? Actually, y'know, I bet it's the cancer." 

Miranda looked close to tears. "Stiles, please, I'm sure—"

"Which? Just for reference. Is it rational at all? Or do I just smell like tape?" 

Peter positively beamed. Stiles felt nauseas. 

"I wouldn't dream of judging a man on traits he cannot alter."

"Well, I'm not really interested in your dreams. Or your judgment."

"You're looking pale, Stiles." Peter clucked. "Perhaps that's enough for today. We wouldn't want you to overdo."

Stiles stared, and then crushed the 'O' of his lips into a line. With all the dignity he could muster—which, on his best day, wasn't much—Stiles rose from his seat, gave Miranda a curt nod, and exited the office. 

He stalked down the aggressively stylish halls of Hale Tower; called his own elevator; and when he at last slammed the door of his Jeep, he struck the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. He cursed. He grabbed the wheel so the leather seams bit into his palms. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his knuckles. 

He went home.

*

"If there's no actual cheese, it's not actual lasagna."

Stiles set a fork on his father's plate with a pointed 'click'. "Well, it's actually what we're having for dinner, so…"

"It's an imposter."

"It's delicious."

"It's pasta and lies."

"Gooey, delicious lies."

The Sheriff sighed and retreated to the living room with his plate. Stiles let his smile drop. He followed a minute later with napkins, his own plate, and two glasses of milk. 

They watched an episode of _Law and Order: Helix_ and the first five minutes of local news. 

"How's school?" said the Sheriff. 

"Fine." 

"Uh-huh. And Scott?"

Stiles shrugged. "Extra fine."

"Kid," said his dad, the sigh implied. 

"Any luck with the rogue?" said Stiles. His dad shot him a look, but dropped the subject.

On the news, an attractive, dark-haired reporter introduced two talking heads. Their names flashed up on the feed, followed by half a dozen initials each. 

_"Sally, I just don't know how I could sit here and, with a straight face, tell you LP mating is completely, one-hundred percent human. LPs aren't one-hundred percent human. And all these advocacy groups, these—these_ protestors _that insist they are, ignore the most important aspect of a diverse society, which is the celebration of differences, not their elimination._

_"Assimilation is a false god. LPs aren't built to satisfy homo sapien standards of romance. They search for a partner when their programming deems their life ideal for courtship and propagation. Their mates are chosen primarily by instinct, and usually satisfy traditional ideas of 'fitness' well enough to make Darwin blush. It's elegant. Really, elegant. Not nearly messy enough to be human."_

_"Dr. Fostram? Do you have a response?"_

_"Do I? Well, Sally, well…I know it's a term that gets thrown around a lot these days, and sometimes undeservedly, but James—Dr. Crow—"_

_"Oh, here we go."_

_"Now wait, Doctor, I'm really—I'm troubled that you would say those things on a public feed. It displays a flaw in our current thinking—it's poison, just absolutely poison, this sapien-centric mode of thought. Utterly counterproductive. Humanity is more than the homo sapien species—"_

_"We're the creators!"_

_"Dr. Crown—"_

_"Come on, now. Come on. Come on, all of us. We created them. Humanity is not an artificial measuring post; it's the only measuring post. Like it or not—"_

_"Now—now, I don't think—"_

_"_ Like it or not _, we are the dominant species on this planet, and when you talk about humanity,_ we _are what you're talking about. What we're discussing is a variation on human, but it's just—it's just_ not _."_

_"Dr. Crown, please, let's give your colleague a chance to respond."_

_"Thank you, Sally. I'd like to bring the discussion back to the original topic, which is whether it's immoral for LPs to be taking mates so young, considering the life-altering choices inherent to LP mating. We are discussing, of course, the Bite, and the elective surgeries that go hand-in-hand. Now, I think, given the advancement in LP chip technology, and the further, successful, integration of LP citizens into US communities, that the LP life cycle needs to evolve to more closely mirror—"_

_"And I'm the bigot."_

_"Doctor—"_

_"This is ridiculous! You don't blame the cat for its heat, do you? No."_

_"Dr. Crown. Please—"_

_"Did you— did you just equate an LP citizen with a_ house cat _?"_

"Dad, are you even watching this?" said Stiles, already reaching for the controller. His dad grunted, so Stiles switched the feed to a sit-com and breathed a sigh of relief. He tried to bring his shoulders down from about his ears, and to think of something other than Derek Hale's eyes and Peter Hale's smirk. 

"Peter Hale is throwing his weight around." 

Stiles stilled his body. "What?"

"The rogue. You asked, and I'm feeling magnanimous. Please do not take this as an invitation to break into my office for supporting documentation. Again." The Sheriff shot him a look. Stiles refused to make eye contact. "Peter Hale being a monumental pain in my ass is what's happening. Trying to get information from Tris is like pulling teeth. Hale plays Presidential Privilege. Not that I can prove it."

"You can't just get a warrant?"

"Yeah, sure, if we never wanted the Hales to work with us ever again. Warrants for Tris mean more cameras in Hale faces—"

"In Tris projects."

The Sheriff nodded. 

"But if they're interfering with the investigation—"

"I wouldn't go that far. Now, look, you asked what was happening, and that's it. Peter Hale is dragging his feet. It's our only damn lead." 

Stiles chewed on his lip. "He must have a motive." 

"People usually do." 

"But don't you think—"

"I don't know why I thought I could just give you a simple update and that would satisfy your curiosity."

"Yeah, that was pretty poor planning on your part." 

The Sheriff smiled at him sort of sad, the way he did when he was looking at Stiles but thinking about Stiles' mother. Stiles had to swallow around a lump in his throat. 

He looked back at the feed. He felt the shame of Peter's words all over again. Stiles tried to gulp around them, but they just wouldn't go down. 

The Sheriff coughed and shifted in his chair. "Right. How'd the interview go?"

Stiles looked at his hands, fingers tapping and twirling, as usual, never still. He traced a line on his palm. He made sure to look into his dad's eyes as he shrugged. "It was whatever. What I thought. PR crap. They asked me a lot of questions about my hopes and dreams and whether I'd consider marrying a fire sign." 

"And you're all right with that?" said his dad, carefully, delicate in a way he rarely was. 

"Yeah, 'course. I mean, sure, arranged marriages are so retro-chic, but retro really just means expensive-old, and who wants a piece of that? Nobody."

"All right, kid. All right." The Sheriff turned his attention to the television. "What the hell are we watching? Gimme that." He motioned for the controller.

*

The next day, Stiles was fit only for lacrosse and brooding. Tryouts were Monday, and he wanted to be on-pointe. He called Scott, and they dragged themselves to the Park.

Scott swatted Stiles' shot away from the makeshift goal line set up between two pine trees. Stiles flung his head back and groaned at the sky. Scott laughed. 

"Not fair," Stiles sing-songed. 

"Don't care," Scott trilled back. 

"Jerkwolf." Stiles jogged across the field and scooped up the ball. 

"Oh my god," said a masculine voice, loud enough that Stiles knew it came from someone nearby. 

Stiles glanced over his shoulder—then did a double take. A couple in their twenties stood on a nearby walking path. They stared at him. When Stiles looked, the woman had the decency to glance away, shifting her weight on her feet. Her companion continued to stare. 

Stiles waved. 

The man started whispering to the woman, but neither of them waved back. 

Stiles jogged the ball back to Scott. He opened his mouth to ask if Scott could maybe-possibly-please eavesdrop on the creepers on the jogging path, but Scott seemed preoccupied by a Frisbee game a field over. 

That was just too good to ignore.

*

Stiles flopped face down on his bed, and immediately regretted it. He rubbed at his forehead and dug his forgotten cellphone out of his pillows. He woke the main page. His eyes widened.

Nine missed—

"Why do I pay for this thing if you never use it?" said the most recent message from his dad. The next text ordered him to check his news feed. 

Obediently, Stiles flicked open the NBCNN homepage. No disasters, no fires, no tornadoes, no serial killers, just the continuing coverage of anti-LP demonstrations in the East. He slid his finger over the headline tracker, but nothing popped out to him. He checked the local station's text feed. 

_LITTLE V FOR THE BIG H?_

Beneath the headline was a picture of Stiles, taken as he slid into his Jeep. The bold lines of the Hale logo loomed large on the garage wall behind him. The 'big H' that marked half the public projects in BH was synonymous with the family Hale. Stiles skimmed the article. 

Pure gossip. Thankfully. Stiles had been spotted leaving the Hale building. A Hale insider had confirmed that Stiles was one of the potential mates Derek was considering. There was also a picture of Jackson as he climbed out of an elevator, looking like a NeoVogue model in his charcoal suit. Stiles tried not to compare his somewhat rumpled dress slacks and finger-combed hair. 

Surprisingly, they were the only two photographs. 'Other candidates' were mentioned, but the article concentrated on the only unsequenced cit in mix: Stiles. 

Half a dozen of the messages on his phone were from people Stiles had never heard of before. Mostly reporters. They must have tracked down classmates with his number. Maybe the track girls at the party—they'd all been a little tipsy. 

Stiles deleted them all fifteen seconds in, right around when they disclosed which publication they worked for. 

One message from Scott, demanding that Stiles call him immediately. He must have looked at the news while Stiles drove home. Stiles winced. He hadn't been lying to Scott, exactly. He just hadn't wanted to mention the thing with the Hales when there was not actually a thing going on with the Hales. Which there definitely was not, no matter what _The Beacon_ seemed to think (and print). He resolved to talk to Scott on Monday. Later. After he'd come up with an explanation that was Scott-caliber and would minimize the puppy eyes. 

There was a short voicemail from his dad asking him why a reporter had just accosted him in the diner. 

"Why were you in the diner," Stiles grumbled, and checked the clock—two hours before his dad got home. Couldn't wait for that conversation. 

The last message was from another unknown number, a v-chat instead of a voicemail. Cautiously, Stiles pressed play, ready to exit out of the window at the first sight of peen or reporter.

Instead, he got a frameful of cheekbones and stormy eyes. Derek Hale stared into the recorder, mouth settled in an ill-contented line. 

"Stiles," he said, and Stiles dropped the phone. 

There were some mumbled sounds from the floor. Stiles dove over the side of the bed after it, swiping it off the carpet, and tossing himself back against his pillows. He quickly re-oriented the phone and kept his thumbs away from the exit button. 

Derek sat on a leather couch, his dark hair framed by a red brick wall. 

"—the way this was handled." Derek looked down. "I wanted to tell you myself. We need to"—he grimaced—"talk. I'll be home Monday. Come by around five…please." 

Derek gave his address, rattling it off like an afterthought—warehouse district, the hippest part of downtown for the young, sequenced, and moneyed. The video screen minimized.

Stiles reopened the video before he could overthink it, chewing on a thumbnail while he listened to Derek's ineloquent apologies. He sounded out of practice. Stiles was surprised. He would have thought any Hale would be smooth and dazzling as the walls of their tower. But on second thought, Derek hadn't exactly been the king of subtlety in their previous meeting, either.

Their 'introduction', Stiles thought, and snorted. He hit the replay button when the video ended, and thought about what he should do. 

If he went to see Derek, there would be more pictures of him. Monday was already…well, it was going to be different, Stiles was sure. Did he want to deal with the stares and the talk? And Jackson-bitch-face-Whittemore? Derek did seem awfully serious about this mate thing. With Stiles. This Stiles thing with…the mating. 

But if that was the case, then why have Peter arrange his interview? Or had Peter been lying about that? If Derek had wanted to do it himself, why hadn't he?

The whole thing stank. It stank like interesting. 

Obviously, he was going.

*

Scott laid into him as soon as the car door shut.

"What the hell is going on, Stiles." 

It didn't sound like a question, technically. It lacked the rising tone of the interrogative. But half the conversation last night with the Sheriff had been a series of not-question-questions. Not rhetorical questions, mind you. Stiles had made the mistake of not answering, and the look his dad had given him had probably left burn scars on his retinas. 

"Nothing's going on," said Stiles, manfully resisting the urge to squeak and flail. Both hands on the wheel, today. It made him seem more trustworthy. "Nothing. This is exactly why I didn't say anything, because there's nothing to say about it. There is no it!"

Scott glared. 

Stiles checked the position of his hands on the steering wheel and made sure his rearview mirrors were optimally angled. 

"There pictures in the newspaper that say an It's at least being incubated."

Stiles' left hand rose in a gesture of futility before Stiles squashed it back down to two-o'clock. 

"Stiles. Talk."

"I never thought in all my days you would be the one begging me to—"

"About the Hales."

Stiles sighed through his nose. "We'll talk about how much your command voice is turning me on, later, oh captain, my captain." He ignored Scott's look. "And there genuinely is no story. They called me in for one of those interview-things like Jackson got. It…well, I don't think I'm gonna hyphenate my name anytime soon, so no worries."

"How did you even meet Hale?"

"Same way you did, dude." Stiles flicked his eyes over and hoped Scott wouldn't make him bring up their epic bitch fest in the middle of the hallway. 

"No, not the same way at all. You spoke for, what, thirty seconds?" 

Stiles shrugged. 

"Did you talk after I left?" He sounded betrayed.

"Against my will!" Stiles protested. "It was clearly a hostage situation, I swear. Apparently that's what twists Hale's panties." 

"For how long?"

"Were his panties twisted?"

"Did you talk."

"Literally, like, two minutes. It was nothing."

Scott's frown only deepened, and Stiles feared this subject would never drop on its own. 

"Look, baby, you know you're the only one for me, right? Nothing happened with that Derek guy." 

"Stiles, can you please—"

"Can you please stop acting like a jealous boyfriend?" 

Scott was quiet for a moment. But then he sighed, and Stiles knew he'd won. For now. 

There was still the matter of Derek inviting Stiles to his apartment, but Stiles figured missions of pure curiosity still fell under the purview of 'nothing'. He'd tell him later. He would.

*

Though nobody else tried to interrogate him for his own good, Monday was just as insufferable as Stiles had feared. Mostly people ignored him, per usual. In the lunchroom, he saw some of the LPs shoot him curious glances. Some of the HSs whispered to their friends while badly hiding their stares. Jackson looked at him as if he'd just told an incomprehensible joke, and Stiles took pleasure in eating his lunch and not noticing. Lydia didn't deign to look at him at all—though her grip on Jackson's wrist seemed tighter than usual. If anything, she was worried Stiles wasn't competition enough, Stiles figured.

No one approached him, and Stiles was glad. All this Hale drama was throwing off his focus anyway, and he really couldn't afford it today. 

'LACROSSE TRYOUTS AFTER SCHOOL,' said the sign in the boys' locker room. Hand-painted by Greenberg, no doubt.

Stiles' classes ticked by to the bounce of his leg, his knee bumping gently against the underside of his desk and making the LPs near him shoot him annoyed looks. 

There were thirty minutes left in World History when an office aid slipped through the door and handed Mr. Grumbalm a pass. The old VSHS pursed his lips, and then gestured toward Stiles. 

"Just take your stuff," he said. 

Stiles scooped up his backpack and the pass. He glanced at it outside the classroom. He wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but unless the Sheriff had scheduled a dentist's appointment and forgotten to tell him....

Mrs. Argent wished to see him to discuss his college plans. 

Stiles fumbled a step and earned a strange look from a girl walking back from the bathroom. Stiles hiked his bag further up his shoulder and continued down the hall. 

The Guidance Counselor had a private office inside the main offices. The receptionist gave him a look, so Stiles waved and tried to pretend he'd never seen the inside of the Principal's office.

"Can I help you, honey?"

"No! No, I just…" Stiles snatched the stylus off a stand and looked down at the appcounter. Beside the stylus stand was a sign-in sheet opened for the Guidance Counselor.

Before Stiles had finished filling in his reason for visit, a voice he recognized from the first day assembly called his name. He turned around, and was confronted with a smiling Victoria Argent. Her teeth looked especially sharp and white against her dark lipstick. 

"Don't bother with that, just come on in. We have lots to discuss." 

"We do?" said Stiles, but he pushed the stylus back into its holder.

Together, they entered her office. She shut the door. 

"Please," she said, and gestured toward the chair in front of him, across the desk from her own. Stiles settled, dropping his backpack beside his feet. To avoid eye contact, he looked around Mrs. Argent's office. 

At a public school, the room might've been crowded—filled with outdated filing cabinets and computers with thick, unwieldy screens—but not at Hale Prep. Argent's office contained two chairs for students; a comfortable, leather monstrosity for Mrs. Argent; and a sleek, new appdesk. Tasteful art lined the walls, along with a sepia diploma that bore the eagle seal of the Eastern United States Educational Standards Board. On the desk, a picture frame faced away from visitors, towards the leather chair. Stiles wondered if Allison was in that picture. 

"Stiles Stilinski," said Mrs. Argent. 

"Present," Stiles quipped. 

Mrs. Argent gave him a generous quirk of her lips. She leaned back in her chair, her posture slightly slumped, and her hands folded in her lap. Stiles wondered if she practiced looking non-threatening in the mirror, or if that was a thing they taught you in Guidance Counselor school. 

"I was looking over the results of the PNSAT IV, and when your name came up, I wondered why I hadn't seen you in my office yet. Your scores are remarkable." 

"Thanks. But I'm no Lydia Martin."

Mrs. Argent smiled. "Miss Martin is certainly a bright young woman. On the right track. Like you."

Stiles felt his eyebrows jump. It'd been a long time since a teacher had told him he was on the 'right' anything. Not since he'd started at Hale Prep. 

Mrs. Argent picked up a stylus and tapped on her desktop. She flicked a document towards his side, and Stiles leaned forward to re-orient it.

"With your grades, your test scores, and your continued involvement in extra-curricular activities"—Stiles wondered what sort of essay on perseverance and loser-dom he could write about three years of bench-sitting—"you have a real chance at any number of universities in the area"—Stiles held in his sigh—"or even further abroad, if your family would be open to that." 

Stiles looked up from the document—a one-page profile on yours truly, listing his various accomplishments and necessary medications. He tried to determine from her expression if Mrs. Argent was testing him. 'Go East, young man,' was hardly Hale Prep's motto. 

Mrs. Argent's fingers laced together in her lap, and she held Stiles' eyes. Her smile remained cool and appropriate. Stiles was reminded of his mother's cat—the one he used to hold staring contests with. He'd hold her sleepy green eyes until his stung, dry. 

"Really."

"Of course, Stiles. You have incredible potential. It should be realized." 

Mrs. Argent touched her stylus to the appdesk a few more times, and then turned the windows around so Stiles could see. They were the homepages of three different universities, one of which was in New York City. Stiles carefully touched his fingertips to the edge of the window. 

"I would recommend you look into these institutions. They have wonderful, well-rounded programs, and established criminal justice departments." 

"You certainly do your research."

"It was written on last year's career inventory. Is that still your interest?" 

"Yeah, I mean—yeah. I guess so." 

"Good." 

Stiles took a moment to scroll through the websites. They were all places he'd looked at before. One, even, he'd requested information from.

"Of course, it's perfectly normal to change your mind." 

"Hm?" Stiles flicked through the pictures of NYU's campus, each building more exhilaratingly dour than the last. 

"You should allow for the possibility that your focus may change in college. New people, new books, new classes. Nearly everyone changes their mind at least once." 

"Oh. Yeah, sure. I dunno, I'm pretty set on CJ. It just fits. Plus, the career inventories all say I'm barking up the right tree, so…" 

"Of course," said Mrs. Argent, and she laid one hand flat on the desk, leaning forward in her chair. "I just think it's important to discuss the possibility. Especially with bright students like you, Stiles. Sometimes indecision, coupled with doubts, or distractions, can get in the way of all that potential. It's terribly sad, seeing someone squander their chances, just because the right choice came around at the wrong time." 

Stiles nodded, bemused. 

"I wouldn't want anything to come between you and your future." Mrs. Argent's well-manicured nails tapped against the upper edge of the NYU website. 

And Stiles realized why he was here. He leaned back in his chair, hands slipping away from the appdesk. 

"I get what you're saying," he said, choosing his words with care. "And I don't think there's anything to worry about." 

Mrs. Argent studied him. "Great. I'll just send these sites to your tab. I hope to see more of you soon, Stiles."

*

Stiles walked out of Argent's office with at least fifteen minutes to kill before he needed to descend to the locker rooms. Rather than settling his nerves, the extra time gave his thoughts room to multiply and swarm. This was at least number two on Stiles' list of most bizarre weeks ever. With Scott's suspicion, Jackson's jealousy, and now Mrs. Argent's cloak-and-dagger warnings, Stiles was beginning to wonder if satisfying his curiosity was worth getting any closer to the family Hale. He'd barely spent three minutes with Derek, and now that conversation defined his life.

Stiles stayed mum as he suited up for try-outs. Scott shot him concerned looks, but Stiles didn't feel like talking. He barely waved as they split the LPs and HSs into their separate groups and headed out to the twin fields. 

He lined up next to his teammates, and stared at the trees along the far eastern fence. He thought about Derek Hale's exposed brick walls and buttery leather couches. He wondered if it would matter to someone like that if Stiles just never showed up. It's not like he'd RSVP'd. 

"Bilinski!" Finstock shouted, and Stiles realized his fellows were half-way across the field. He bolted, sprinting to catch up with them, and barely catching up in time to sink down and touch the line before running back. 

After the warm-up, Finstock split them into two groups—one to rotate in as goalie, one to line up and take their best shots. Stiles took his turn as goalie first, rotating in right after Danny Mahealani made two spectacular saves. As they passed, Danny slapped him the shoulder, and Stiles couldn't even think of it as condescending. It was Danny. 

Stiles sank in front of the net and tried to clear his mind of anything but lacrosse. He breathed deeply and concentrated on the flash of white scooped up into some sophomore's crosse. It was a predictable shot; the sophomore phoned in his attack like it was the answer to a Jeopardy question. As Stiles dropped his shoulder, preparing to duck in front of the curved path of the ball, something glinted in the grass near the player's foot. A candy wrapper? A belt buckle. What was a belt buckle doing on the lacrosse field? Wouldn't somebody slip—?

The ball hurtled into Stiles' elbow and bounced out of the net. The sophomore looked dejected, but the more senior players glanced at each other. Finstock looked unimpressed…but unsurprised. Stiles breathed deep, scooped up the ball, and snapped it to the person in the front row. 

He settled into his stance. He thought of a number line. Simple, black, in Helvetica. He loved Helvetica. It was elegant. Clean. One — 1 —I. Two — 2 —II. With half his attention, he watched the player line up his shot. It was Evans this time, a talented junior. He'd made first line last year, something Stiles tried not to let rile him. He was poised to take over the captainship when Jackson graduated. A nice guy, all things considered. Cute, with dark brown eyes. Hadn't he been as Lydia's party? Oh yeah, Stiles remembered now. Neon green shorts. Generally, a poor choice, not that Stiles was an authority, but Evans looked like an extra from MTV Spring Break in them. Stiles thought he remembered Evans splashing a little with him and the track girls, maybe—

Damn it. Four — 4 — IV — what was the roman numeral for one-hundred? Hadn't he once seen a clock with Arabic numerals? Didn't they pretty much look the same, except wasn't nine like a backwards seven? Oh God, he needed a Helvetica clock. How had he not thought of this—no.

Eight — 8 — VII. Nine — 9 — IX. 

Evan's shoulders rolled under his jersey as he curled his arms, his hips twisting. Some power there, goddamn. If this whole LP breeding machine thing didn't work out — ten — 10 — X — Stiles could—

Evan's shot hit the back of the net, sailing right over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles' mind cleared. His hands tightened on the crosse. 

Stiles walked out of the goal and refused to meet his teammates' eyes. He took his spot in the back of the attack line.

*

Stiles slammed the back of the Jeep so hard an LP from a row away shot him a dirty look. Stiles flipped him off.

He threw himself into the driver's seat and didn't look at Scott until he'd buckled in and pulled out of the parking spot. 

Thankfully, Scott took the hint and didn't ask him how try-outs had gone. Instead, he turned on the LiLu and picked out the classic pop station. They listened to the Spice Girls until he dropped Scott in his driveway. 

His best friend gave him half a smile, and because Scott smiles were magic, Stiles couldn't help trading half a smile right back. 

It disappeared the moment he turned the corner, but for a moment, it had really existed, and he'd meant it.

*

Stiles didn't know why he thought driving downtown at five o'clock would be a good idea. Or why Derek had thought it would be a good idea, the friggin' idiot. Thankfully, most of the traffic was going the other direction, the nine-to-five hordes returning to the suburbs.

Derek's warehouse-chic turned just-chic neighborhood boasted exactly no available public parking. Stiles crawled through the neighborhood at fifteen while he looked for a space, finally pulling up in front of Derek's building and temporarily double-parking so he could get out and talk to the doorman. 

The man shot him a dubious look as he walked up. Understandable, Stiles thought. His hair was still barely dry from his post-lacrosse shower, and he hadn't gelled it in the car, so it curled little-boyish over his forehead. He hadn't bothered dressing up for another Hale, either, that would just add insult to injury. Still, Stiles made sure to walk with his chin up and a confident step, hoping attitude would make up for the dents and dust on his Throwback. 

He wasn't sure if the acting worked, but the doorman pointed out a previously unnoticed entrance to the building's parking structure. Stiles said his thanks and tried to figure out the logistics of the parking lot as he descended the unmarked ramp. Had it been put in after the gentrification? Had it always been there? Why? 

He parked in the limited visitors spaces and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. Not quite the penthouse, but close enough. 

He ran a hand through his hair and knocked. 

Derek answered the door in bare feet. It was that, more than the tight t-shirt, or the worn jeans, that made the back of Stiles' neck begin to heat. Bare feet were like the universal sign for safe and comfy. Suddenly shy, Stiles glanced between Derek's hand on the door and his collarbones. 

Derek didn't greet him. He pulled open the door and moved aside. Stiles squeezed past him, squirming close to the doorframe despite the ample room. He still felt Derek's warmth as he closed the door behind Stiles' back. 

They stood in the entrance together. Stiles stuffed his hands in his hoodie's kangaroo pocket and looked at the apartment so he wouldn't have to look at Derek. 

Sparse art hung on the walls. An immense, impressionist rendition of the BH valley hung, bolted, above Derek's leather couch. Stiles had seen it before in an art book, he thought. Rendinski? A Californian painter, anyway. Tasteful. Local. Expensive. Maybe a reproduction.

The coffee table and the side tables were clear of clutter, with the exception of one singular book laid down next to an empty coffee cup. The kitchen looked unused—shiny and clear. 

"Do you have someone in for it?" Stiles asked. 

"What?" 

"The apartment." He waved a hand around and then stuffed it back in his pocket. "Do you clean it yourself, or, like…?" 

"I do it myself." Derek walked past him, across the living room, settling on the couch. "I don't like people here." 

Right, Stiles thought. Territory. That was an LP thing. He knew that. Scents. He imagined it must be difficult for Derek to keep somewhere private and stranger-free, what with the press hounding his family. Stiles wondered where Derek took his one-night stands. No-Tell Motels? Wouldn't that offend Derek's precious LP senses? Maybe he went to their places. 

"I didn't mean you." 

"What?" said Stiles, ripping himself away from the tempting thought of Derek Hale and uncommitted sex. 

"I don't mind you here. I didn't mean it like that." 

"Oh." Stiles looked at his feet. He noticed the shoe rack for the first time, and turned to put his hands on the wall so he could toe off his sneakers. Apparently, Stiles wasn't stranger enough for Derek to get his hackles up. Or maybe he was just that unthreatening. Probably the second one. 

Stiles walked across the living room, feeling exposed, and desperately wanting to try sock-gliding across Derek's slick floor. The polished, sealed cement was cold through his socks, but the enormous area rug beneath the furniture had a pile so thick they massaged the soles of Stiles' feet. 

Stiles sank into a leather chair across the coffee table from Derek. The leather was just as buttery soft as he had imagined. He wondered what it'd be like to curl up in it, his legs flung over the arm, his cheek smooshed into the padded back, a book in hand. 

Derek sat forward, his arms on his knees, his hands hanging between his legs. He watched Stiles with that careful, assessing expression that had given Stiles the boner-wiggins the first time they'd spoken. 

"So, I'm here," said Stiles.

"You're here," Derek agreed. He didn't sound thrilled. Thoughtful, maybe, but not happy. Stiles pretended he didn't care. 

"So, y'know…" Stiles shifted in his seat, pulling at his hoodie with both hands in his pocket. "Your meeting, dude." 

Stiles expected some admonishment for the 'dude', but Derek just nodded, and leaned back a little.

"You're here," he said again. This time he sounded surprised. 

Stiles wondered if Hale was high. Bane was a thing. A rich people and really, really poor people thing. He peered across the coffee table, trying to see Derek's pupils in the dim evening light.

"Do you…" Derek trailed off. Those eyebrows crowded together again. Stiles let the silence stretch as long as he could stand it (approximately fifteen seconds). 

"So, hey, wow, I think the kids should definitely have your cheekbones, but let's stick with my wit, right? Is there a chromosome for that?" 

"March is the Wit Moon. Good for breeding smart pups." Derek's expression didn't as much as twitch. 

Stiles' lips parted, and he snapped them together when he realized he was gaping. "I desperately hope that's a joke." 

Derek shot him a bitch-face. 

"You're not high, are you?" 

"Excuse me?" 

"Oh good. 'Cause, wow, that's good. Cool. So what's up with this mating thing, eh?" 

Derek looked lost. 

Stiles lifted his hand to his mouth, realized what he was doing, and put his hand on the arm of the chair before he could chew on his thumb. "I thought this was a conversation about getting hitched, but so far we've stuck with kids and some existentialism. If we could maybe move it along to the 'thanks, but no thanks' portion of tonight's programming, we can all get outta here in time for news at nine."

"I— no." Derek leaned forward again, looking concerned. Stiles pressed himself against the back of the chair. "Why do you think you're here?" 

"Uh, you left me a message. A nice one. Though, just, like, a tip—apologies usually go over better if you don't look like you're passing a kidney stone. But I totally appreciate the effort. So, like, I'm here to hear you say whatever you needed to say about this me on the shortlist thing. Thought, honestly, I think your uncle probably said plenty on that, so if we could just—"

"What did Peter say to you?" 

Stiles blinked, taken aback by the venom in Derek's voice. Derek dropped his eyes away, which told Stiles he hadn't meant to snarl like that. 

"Huh," said Stiles. "He just…y'know, expressed his opinion. Free country and all that. And I totally get that you guys need political cover with this whole, messy, parade of princesses, Cinderella set-up, but you could've just, like, sent me some flowers or something. Didn't need to get all gussied up just to…" Stiles lost his steam. "Whatever." 

Derek licked his lips, which was not at all distracting. He looked at his knees, and folded his hands. "I…" He sighed. "I had Peter schedule the interview because it was necessary, and I needed it discreetly done. And Peter knows discreet. Or I thought he did." 

Now he looked up at Stiles, and while perhaps Derek was still not the best at apologies, which is what Stiles was coming to believe this entire exercise probably was, the anger in his eyes was tempered by a healthy dose of contrition, even desperation. 

"It's just a step. I had to do it before I could…before we could talk seriously." 

"Right."

"And I'm not sure what you thought—it can't have been good—but it wasn't…Stiles, it was not supposed to be public knowledge before I had talked to you. Just the interview. For my family." 

"Interviews," said Stiles. 

"What?"

"Interviews. Just the interviews, for your family, and then you could…" Stiles gestured through his pocket. 

"There weren't any others."

"Um," said Stiles. 

"None that I asked for. There was just…" Derek's lips twitched into something sad, almost like a smile. "You." 

"Me," said Stiles. 

Derek's sad, curled thing bloomed a little, and his eyebrows lightened up a bit. "Do you remember what I asked when we met?" 

_When we met,_ dear fucking lord. "Uh-huh."

Derek raised his eyebrows. 

"Uh, about the Bite. I didn't want the Bite. You were...offended…"

But what about Jackson's callback? Was that all Peter? Derek had chosen…Stiles? 

_Why?_

"I wasn't offended," said Derek. "Surprised, maybe. You were telling the truth. Do you know how rare that is?" 

"I dunno, like, statistically, I think people are surprisingly honest—"

"Stiles, you're smart." 

Stiles thought of Mrs. Argent's one-page biography and he wondered if Derek knew the exact dosage of Stiles' ADHD-fighting amphetamine cocktail. Or the emergency anxiety meds. 

"You know the advantages of being like me." Derek waved a hand at the apartment, and Stiles looked around as if he'd never seen it before. This was just the bizarre cherry on top of this weird week sundae. 

"But it comes with…responsibilities." 

Like Spiderman, Stiles' brain unhelpfully suggested.

"And it's come to the point where…" Derek licked his lips again. They looked wet and pretty in the light of the setting sun. "I need a mate. I just need one. But I don't…want one." He said it like it he was disclosing that the little bumps down there were, in fact, herpes. Not like he was just a guy in his mid-twenties who didn't want to settle down quite yet. LPs, man. Freaky, fairy-tale Prince bullshit. 

Apparently encouraged by Stiles' lack of response, Derek forged ahead. "I don't want that right now. I don't need it. Somebody always…and kids? I don't ever want kids. Ever." 

"But—" Stiles bit down on his words. 

But your programming, Stiles wanted to say. What Derek was talking about—not wanting kids, not wanting a mate—was completely antithetical to everything Stiles had ever been taught about LPs. It wasn't like they were trying to repopulate the earth…but yeah, kinda, they were. Every single person Stiles had ever heard discuss LP programming, including LPs, mentioned that the pack building, pass-on-the-genetics drive was essential to LP lives—to LP identity.

But Stiles wondered what he would say if an LP responded to Stiles' opinions with a, 'What about your genes?'-comment. And it was obvious that Derek was already ashamed of himself. It showed in his taut shoulders and clenched jaw. His hands were carefully loose between his knees, but he was a bad actor, and Stiles was his father's son. 

"Why am I here?" said Stiles, slowly, as if the wrong word or tone of voice would set off a landmine. 

Derek took a breath. His anxiety was catching. Stiles tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. 

"You don't want the Bite." 

"Okay."

"If you were…my mate"—Stiles definitely felt something squirm in his stomach at that word, but he wasn't sure if it was butterflies or nausea—"we'd never have kids. We wouldn't even have to live together, if we didn't want to. My family would get off my back, and you…you'd be a Hale."

"Money," said Stiles. 

Derek twitched, snarling. It was utterly wolfish. 

"Yes. And privileges. Some doors won't open to just anybody. You'd never worry about that again." 

"Berkeley," said Stiles, softly. His mom had gone to Berkeley. 

"Whatever you want." 

"Whatever I want," Stiles echoed. 

Derek scooted towards the edge of the couch. "Stiles, it could work. We live our lives. I won't ask anything of you. You want a mistress in every city on the continent, get one; I don't care. You keep your life, and you can help me keep mine." 

Silence fell, then. Derek watched him, eyes disturbingly bright. They bored into him. 

"Water," said Stiles. 

"What?" 

"May I please have a glass of water?" said Stiles, not looking at Derek. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the LP get to his feet and pad into the kitchen. 

Stiles stood as well. He walked to the window and looked down at the faux-industrial façade of Derek's neighborhood. In the distance, honest-to-god factories sent up smoke signals. 

Sooner than he wanted, Derek was at his elbow. 

"Thanks," said Stiles. He took the glass out of Derek's hand and held it. 

Derek stood beside him, waiting, watching. 

"So what if you change your mind?" said Stiles. "What if six years from now I'm shacked up with my mistress in Monaco, your programming kicks in, and you Bite me?" 

"That won't happen." 

"But what if it does?"

"I'm not lying." 

"I believe you," said Stiles. He took a sip of the water. And he did. But minds change. 

"Stiles—"

"What if your Alpha orders you to?" 

He felt Derek go still. He refused to turn away from the window. It had begun to occur to Stiles that while Derek's apartment was warm and comfortable, and this beautiful man huddled in it in his worn cotton and bare feet, for Stiles this room was a pretty cage, and inside it was a desperate animal. 

"Laura would never do that." 

Stiles nodded, and looked at the hand with the water glass in it. Derek hadn't said he could resist, because they both knew it wasn't true. If Laura Hale told her brother to Bite and rape him, he'd do it, because that's how it worked. He wouldn't have a choice. 

"We'll put it in writing," said Derek, the desperation leaking back into his voice. "All of it. All your terms. Pre-nups are normal. Nothing will happen to you that you don't want." 

"A contract won't make me human again."

Derek was silent at that, so Stiles turned to him. 

"I'm absorbing a lot of risk here," said Stiles. "I could never have children that weren't yours. I could never get married. I'd be surrounded by press. I'd be subject to the orders of your Alpha, which means, realistically, everything you agree to is only half a promise. And you could ite me. All for just money. I—" Stiles shook his head. 

Derek didn't respond, just looked back at him. 

"No, just— no." He took a deep breath. He walked to the side-table, and placed his glass of water on a stone coaster. 

"Not just money," said Derek. His tone was more guarded. The desperation was gone. Stiles turned around so his back wasn't exposed. 

"Your father's got a bad heart." 

Stiles stared. 

Derek folded his arms over his chest. "He's taking pills, but fifteen years from now," Derek took his own deep breath, visibly gathering himself, "the pills won't work. He'll need a new one. Then you have two options: grown or natural."

"Are you kidding me."

"Grown's too expensive, and there's too high a risk for rejection in HSs, so you'll go natural. Which means lists. Long lists. Decades and decades of names. How far up that list do you think he'll get—a fifty-year-old, unsequenced cop with bad cholesterol and one grown-up kid?" 

"Wow," said Stiles. "Okay. I see it now." 

"See—"

"The family resemblance." 

Derek's jaw tightened. But then he released, his arms dropping to his sides, his shoulders relinquishing their posts at his ears. "Do this for me, and he'll have the best care there is. He'll have anything he needs. Everything he wants. And so will you." 

"If this was just about the money, you would've gone with Jackson," said Stiles, pretending that Derek had never spoken. Wishing that Derek hadn't spoken. "You could've gotten him to put a no-womb clause in the contract if you'd offered up the Bite. He's easy. That's why Peter chose him," said Stiles. 

Derek said nothing.

"But you needed somebody that was more than easy. You needed somebody just as desperate as you, right? And who's more desperate than Little Orphan Tape?" 

"It's a fair deal."

Stiles laughed. He laughed as he walked to the door and stuffed his feet in his shoes. His shoulders bunched when he heard Derek follow him. 

"It's not blackmail. It's just an offer. A good one. It's not…like that." 

"Yeah, sure, it's not blackmail. Yet. But you never know with you Hales."

"I wouldn't—"

"Derek, I don't think you have any idea what you're capable of." 

"Is that a no?" 

Stiles paused, his hands still against the wall. His shoes were on. He stared at his hands. His grandfather's hands, his dad always said, meant for playing piano and carving wooden tops. His thumb was red and angry, the skin tattered from teeth. The calluses on his fingertips were from computers and lacrosse. His dad had square hands. Strong. Blunt. He had calluses on his palms—from his gun. 

"It's not a yes," said Stiles. 

"It's not a no." 

"You know this is really fucking shitty. You know that, right?" 

Derek was silent for so long that Stiles whipped his head around to glare at him. Stiles nearly jumped back when he saw how close Derek had gotten. So close that Stiles could see the curl of his ridiculous sooty eyelashes, and the specks of brown and brushes of blue in his maelstrom eyes. 

"It doesn't have to be shitty," said Derek, softly. "It could be all right." 

Derek's eyes flicked from Stiles' gaze, down to his lips, and back up. Stiles stopped breathing. 

Derek looked at his mouth again, and Stiles licked his lips, too nervous to help it. 

"It could be good."

Stiles had to look away. The heat radiating off of Derek, the way he looked, the brush of his breath on his face— it was too much. 

He looked at the wall, where one of his hands still rested, and he saw that Derek leaned there, too. Derek's hand was clenched into a fist, sturdy against the brick. 

A fist. 

Stiles took a step back, ignoring how cold he felt without Derek's heat. He didn't say anything.

He turned for the door. 

"At least let me get your fare."

God, let me out of here. "My what?"

Derek paced across the apartment and opened the drawer of a side table. "For a cab," he said. Because, of course. How else did one get around downtown?

Stiles stared as Derek rooted around through pens, styluses, and pads of scratch paper. "I live in south east."

Derek stopped rooting. "That's…pretty far." 

"Yeah." Stiles looked at Derek's bowed head for another moment, and then took another glance around his apartment. The polished floors, the furniture. The Rodinski bolted down above the couch. Derek's toes hidden in his too-plush carpet. 

This was Derek's territory, filled with possessions that no strangers were permitted to touch. Here were all the things he'd bought with his money to make himself feel safe.

"Obviously," said Stiles, and walked out the door.

*

The calls started on Wednesday. The first was a hang-up from an unknown number. There were fewer reporters and random classmates calling Stiles those days, but there were still some. Stragglers on a deadline, usually. Stiles ignored them.

He tried to think of a way to tell Scott about what happened with Derek, but after, it seemed too much like covering a lie. And how could he explain what happened in that apartment? How could he tell Scott that maybe…maybe he hadn't exactly said no. Not just then.

Impossible.

Thursday, Derek left a voicemail. It was short. A greeting, a, 'Hope we'll talk soon,' and goodbye. Stiles deleted it. 

He was on the couch later that evening, watching a documentary on lions, when his phone buzzed. Derek again. Trying to catch him at dinner, the clever bastard. Not that clever, though. Any reasonable person knew badgering was usually not the way to get a yes out of the unwilling. 

Stiles ignored the call. 

Friday morning, he had a v-chat. It was Derek in a business suit, sitting in an unfamiliar office. Stiles was surprised, and then embarrassed at his surprise. Of course Derek worked. He had an office. And, apparently, a never-ending closet of ridiculously tailored suits. 

Right after checking his messages, Stiles flit over to the BH411, a gossip site. Not his usual news outlet, but ever since the photograph in Hale Tower, he'd grown more cautious. Plus, his dad totally threatened to take away the phone if Stiles kept forgetting it and leaving it off. It was probably an empty threat, but Stiles appreciated the sentiment.

For the last couple of days, the BH411 had been clean. A little speculation concerning the Hales, but their reporters had mostly returned to rumors about film deals, celebrity break ups, and politicians' sex lives. 

Today, Stiles took a bite of cheerios, opened BH411, and nearly spit them out. Splashed across the homepage was a picture of him walking out the door of Derek's apartment. His expression was grim and crumpled, and Stiles couldn't look at it for more than a second. Alongside it was a picture of Derek leaving a liquor store hoisting a couple of twelve-packs. 

_DEREK'S BREAKUP BINGE_

Binge? Maybe Stiles had unhealthy standards, but to him that was hardly a binge. And after the conversation they'd had, Stiles couldn't say he begrudged Derek the numbness. If he'd been old enough to buy booze, he might've done the same thing. 

The picture of him, on the other hand…they called him teary. 

Teary. 

Fuck.

*

Let it never be said, Stiles thought, that I do not learn from my mistakes. His very first step after gulping down the rest of his cheerio milk was to text Scott. His second was to text his dad to let him know there were pictures, and he would explain, and please don't kill him until he heard the whole story.

For Scott: 'So you know how I said there wasn't a thing with the Hales. Well there's maybe a thing now.'

Scott's response: 'Tell in the car.'

So he did. Sort of. Mostly. 

He cut most of the parts about how fucking hot Derek looked walking around all comfortable in worn-in jeans and a James Dean t-shirt, or that his eyes were like whirlpools of moss and starlight. That shit he kept to himself. He told the parts about Derek actually taking Stiles seriously as a candidate for matehood. But he kept Derek's terms to himself, too. That he was still thinking on. That seemed…dirty. And he knew how Scott would see it. And he didn't want to be put in the position of defending freakin' Derek Hale, or worse, defending himself. Maybe once upon a time Scott would've understood how Stiles could consider such a thing, but now….

It was then, as Stiles pulled into the parking lot of Hale Prep, his lips shut firmly on the whole story, that he realized how much had really changed between him and Scott. Not all for the better. But as he listened to Scott tiptoe around his feelings, swallowing his judgment, Stiles knew it wasn't all for the worst, either.

*

If only everyone was like Scott.

The stares and whispers from before were nothing compared to the way people side-eyed him now. The looks Lydia shot him felt like being skinned, while Allison's eyes held a soft pity each time she glanced his way. The others whispered behind their hands and avoided his eyes when he turned to confront their stares. 

Jackson was downright sour.

All through lunch, Scott frowned at a group of LP girls huddled near their table. Stiles ignored them. Ten minutes before lunch was over, the group broke into giggles, and Scott's hands tightened on his tray. He started to stand up, and Stiles quickly grabbed onto his shirt and tugged him back down. 

"What are you doing?" 

"You don't know what they said," said Scott. 

"Dude. I appreciate you defending my honor and all, but I'll, like, survive."

Scott still glared at the giggling LPs. 

"Yeah, McCall," said Jackson, and Stiles fought the urge to groan. Nothing good ever came of Jackson chiming in. "Let B-Team enjoy the attention while he's got it." 

"Thanks, Jackson," said Stiles sarcastically. 

"Looking out for you. You know how these things tend to go."

"What things?" said Scott.

"These little flings. One minute you're everything, you're the father of his kids, the next your ass is back on the bench. It's the way of the world." Jackson shrugged. 

"Stiles is not a fling," said Scott hotly. 

"Yeah," Stiles croaked. What he said.

Jackson scoffed. "There are pictures of you leaving his apartment. Crying."

"I wasn't crying!"

"And they just talked," said Scott. 

"Right. Okay." Jackson held up his hands. "Look, I don't care. I really, really cannot describe how much I don't care about your sex life, but don't pretend like we don't see what this is, okay? You won. Congratulations. No shame in a little ambition." 

"You're an ass," said Scott. 

"Whatever," said Stiles. He picked up his lunch tray and pushed back his chair. He was too tired for this shit. "Think what you want." 

He was gratified that Scott followed him to turn in their trays, though it did leave Allison at their table looking lost, caught between Lydia and Jackson. He felt bad about that, but only for a second. He was preoccupied with himself this week, and he could admit it.

*

So preoccupied, that immediately after his last class, he and Scott power walked down to the locker room. Posted outside the doors on the appboard were the names of the newly initiated lacrosse team.

Scott made first line on the LP team. His grin sent Stiles' adrenaline spiking in anticipation. Others had gathered around them by then, looking for their own names or waiting for friends. 

Smith, Smothers, Smothers, Turner…

Stiles checked again. 

Smith, Smothers, Smothers, Turner. 

Maybe…

Bell, Brown, Cartwright.

He ran a finger down the second string line.

Salina, Sorrento, Stilinski. 

He looked at Scott, then quickly away, unable to take the pity. 

"Aw, too bad B-Team." Jackson stood behind them, looking at his own name, firmly in the first line column, a little 'C' printed next to it. "Better luck next— oh. Right, senior year. Damn." 

"Fuck off, Jackson," Scott snarled, and Stiles swore there was a bit of orange in his eyes. He put a hand on Stiles' shoulder, but Stiles shrugged him off. 

"Whatever," said Stiles. He hiked his bag up on his shoulders and stalked away. 

"Stiles," called Scott, but Stiles just waved goodbye and pushed through the double doors at the end of the hallway. 

He had just unlocked the Jeep when he phone rang. He cursed and dug it out of his pocket. 

Derek. Again. Stiles hit accept. 

"What."

"Finally. How are—"

"Look, Hale, I'm getting in my car. What."

A momentary pause. "No rush," he said cautiously, "but I was wondering if you'd thought at all about our conversation."

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, I've thought about it all right."

"And?"

"And go fuck yourself."

"What?"

"Go. Fuck. Yourself. You need a diagram?"

"Stiles, I think maybe—"

"You don't get absolutely everything all the freaking time, okay? Or maybe you, like—maybe you do, but not this time. Not me."

"That's not—"

"Go pay some other whore, Hale." 

Stiles ended the call and threw the phone in the passenger seat. When it rang again, he shut it off.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien  
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien  
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien  
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien

Laura Hale couldn't take a bad picture if she tried. That's what Stiles thought as he watched the Governor stand behind the podium, her posture perfect, and her hair pulled half-up in an elegant twist. Her pink mouth twitched in and out of a solemn line as she addressed the recorders, finally addressing the half-dozen LP lynchings televised in the last month. She recommended a cool head, and it was clear she intended to lead by example. 

"They'll start calling her Lady Temperance," said the Sheriff. 

"They'll call her more than that," said Stiles. 

The persecution of LPs in the East had escalated at a terrifying pace, but he couldn't remember Governor Hale ever so much as condemning the obvious failure of the Eastern government. Condolences and a stiff upper lip only went so far this side of the Atlantic. 

The Governor descended from the podium and the crowd rose to its feet. 

"Speaking of Hales," said the Sheriff, and raised his eyebrows expectantly. He'd been pointedly nosy ever since the second round of pictures. No more omissions, Stiles had promised. 

Sure.

"Dead end," said Stiles. 

"What happened?" 

"It's just…nothing. It's over. Non-starter."

"Are we sure about that this time?"

"Dad," Stiles whined. 

"Son."

"I'm sure, okay? It's done."

*

First lacrosse practice of the season was Monday afternoon. Stiles swallowed down his pride and revised his strategy. A half-season elevation wasn't unheard of. Somebody was always out of first-line by midterms, and when a spot opened up, Stiles would spring into action. Like a jungle cat.

"Or a lemur," Scott said, and Stiles insisted they were no longer friends. 

It wasn't as bad as he thought it would be, practicing a field away from Scott. In a way, it was even nice. Sure, he had nobody to talk to on the bench—and wasn't that a tragedy for the world—but on the other hand, he paid more attention to what he was doing when he wasn't also determined to coach Scott to the spotlight. Scott got his own spotlight just fine, these days. 

For the first practice, Coach split the team into red and black jerseys. Stiles was red, and his team captain put him on defense. Way in the back. 

Understandable. 

But Stiles watched for an opportunity. When Johnson, a black-jersey player, made a skilled interception far into maroon territory, Stiles sprinted to cut him off. Time to erase his try-out. 

He gained ground on Johnson as another red defender jumped in to block Johnson's attack. The black-jersey swerved, only to find Stiles right in his face, dogging his heels and getting in his way as legally as possible. Johnson glanced around for an open black-jersey, and when he found it, twitched his shoulders to make the pass. 

Stiles reached with his crosse, looking to intercept. The ball was a streak of white towards the black-jersey'd forward. The ball clipped the edge of his crosse basket. He had it!

Stiles ran. The black jerseys closed on him, reds flapping in the wind beside them. Stiles swerved and twisted, nearly losing his footing in the mud when his heel slipped. Farther up the field, Jackson lost his guard with a feint and quick burst of speed. They made eye contact. Stiles shot the ball to Jackson before thinking about it. 

Jackson was running practically before the ball swooshed into his crosse. He dodged a defender. He shot. The ball hit the back of the net. Stiles grinned. 

Across the field, Jackson twisted his head, and they looked at each other. 

 

"Bilinski!" Coach shouted. "No boyfriends at practice."

Stiles frowned. Boyfriends? Had Scott…? But the stands were empty. 

Stiles saw something glint in the shade to the left of the bleachers. 

Derek Hale. 

Derek Hale, wearing a ridiculous leather jacket. The light reflected off a zipper on its exaggerated sleeves. Derek's arms crossed over his chest, and his face was carefully set in neutral, but his eyes crinkled at the edges, like he wanted to smile. Something in Stiles' stomach flipped, and he glanced away. 

"Oh, Jesus Christ," said Jackson, coming up behind Stiles. Jackson sneered, looking at Derek. 

"I didn't ask him to," said Stiles, voice rising. He bit his tongue¬¬¬¬—literally, just to be sure. 

Jackson gave him a disdainful once-over, then picked up his crosse and got in position for the next play. Stiles glared at Derek from across the field. He jerked his head.

"Leave," he said under his breath. 

Derek scowled, but Stiles glanced significantly at Coach Finstock, and then flicked his eyes toward the parking lot. Derek stared at him for another few seconds, then pushed himself away from the bleachers and strolled back to the parking lot. 

As Stiles lined up to start the next play, he noticed Johnson staring. He met his eyes and quirked his eyebrows. Johnson ducked his head. Bemused, Stiles looked to his left and right, only to find his teammates hastily averting stares of their own. Stiles frowned. 

In the first fifteen minutes of practice, Stiles had been tackled twice. His guards harried him. He had bruises ripening on his shoulders and arms. 

For the next hour and a half, no one so much as touched him.

*

Derek was leaning against the side of the school like a delinquent when Stiles finally slammed out of the locker rooms. He'd dawdled as long as he could, but then realized if Derek really was out there, he'd just forced his entire team (not to mention the LPs) to walk right past him waiting there for Stiles like a mom outside a karate studio. 

Derek pushed away from the brick when he saw Stiles. He opened his mouth, but Stiles wasn't interested in having this conversation with Greenberg gaping at them from three feet away.

Stiles marched up to the VLPH, grabbed his arm above the elbow, and dragged him around the corner to a more secluded alcove. Derek watched him with one eyebrow raised, the douche. Like Stiles didn't know there was no way he could drag Derek anywhere he didn't want to go. LP ridiculousness excluded, the arm Stiles had his fingers cinched around was firm and frighteningly girthy, threatening to break his grip if Derek flexed. 

It was in no way attractive. 

Once appropriately ensconced, Stiles threw the arm away from him and took a step back to properly glare at Derek Hale's stupid face. Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

"I wanted to talk to you."

"I have a phone."

"That…wasn't working out."

"For you, maybe." 

Derek looked away. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. After a few interminable moments of silence, Stiles scrubbed a hand under his chin and sighed. 

"Look," said Stiles, "you can't stalk me, all right? My dad's the friggin' Sheriff. Also, it's creepy." 

"I'm not stalking you," Derek snapped. 

"The evidence shows—"

"I just wanted to have a conversation. One that avoided any creative instructions about my anatomy." 

"I really don't know why you thought a face-to-face would avoid that." 

"I was hoping you'd calmed down."

"You mean 'grown up?' Yeah, no, sorry. Still a teenager." 

"No," Derek's jaw gritted so tight that his teeth scraped his words as they struggled from his mouth. "I mean calmed down." 

"Oh, really?" Stiles bristled. "Since this is apparently me calm, I'll repeat my answer, clearly, in small words, so you're sure to understand this time: You. Can. Go. F—"

"Derek," said Jackson, walking into their secluded spot like it was the food court at the mall. Lydia walked beside him, their hands clasped. She watched both him and Derek with a speculative expression. 

"Jackson," said Derek, strained, but polite. "Nice to see you again. Good practice." 

"Thanks," said Jackson, frowning. "So how is everything?"

"Just fine. Just having a talk with Stiles." 

"Right," said Jackson. He looked at Stiles, and then his eyes slid to Lydia. She offered a tiny upward tilt of her lips, too thin to be called a smile. "Nice to see you." 

Derek nodded, and Jackson turned away. Stiles saw Lydia squeeze Jackson's hand, and Jackson squeezed hers back. Stiles frowned, but the frown didn't stay. He watched them walk back to Jackson's car. 

"They already think it's happening."

Stiles turned back to Derek. "It's the actually happening I have a problem with."

"I know. Maybe you—"

"Christ, Hale, are you fried? No means no. EN—OH."

"What I was going to say, if you'd let anybody else get a word in edgewise"—Stiles opened his mouth, but Derek talked over the top of him—"was that you may have had a point."

Stiles shut his mouth, but he raised his eyebrows. 

"About the risks involved. I hadn't thought about the situation from your perspective. Not properly. But I think…if you knew me, knew my family, you might be able to…" Derek frowned at himself, angry that his words had escaped. He pressed his lips in a line.

"Trust you?" 

"Something like that."

"I don't…no." Stiles shook his head and started to back away. "I don't see what could change. I don't know how I could…"

"Please." Derek caught his wrist and Stiles paused. "I'm…sorry. The way I did this was wrong. From the beginning, it's been all wrong."

Stiles watched Derek's eyes flit across Stiles' blank expression, looking desperately for a sign. 

"Just let me call you." 

"What?"

"Call you."

"You want to call on me?" 

"Call— _call_ —on a phone. This isn't a musical."

"That explains those detentions, then."

Derek sighed through his nose.

"Okay," said Stiles, suddenly, and felt just as surprised as Derek looked. "Yeah, okay," he said. "You can do that. For now."

"Good," said Derek, instead of thank you, and Stiles rolled his eyes as he jerked his wrist out of Derek's grasp. 

"But stop stalking me," said Stiles, throwing the command over his shoulder as he made his way out to the parking lot. 

He sat for a moment in the Jeep, hands on the wheel, thinking about what he and Derek Hale could possibly have to talk about. 

As soon as Stiles saw Derek start walking to his car, he jammed the ignition push and backed out of his parking spot. Stiles' mouth twisted in a stubborn, confusing smile.

*

Stiles rubbed at his wrist throughout the next morning, scowling each time he did. There must be some kind of freaky LP magic in last-minute grabs. Twice now, Derek had gotten his way by trapping Stiles as he tried to escape. That was probably not a healthy way to start a relationship.

Not that there was a relationship. 

"He dangled dad in front of you like a gambling debt," Stiles reminded the mirror in the boys' room.

But what could a little conversation hurt?

"Plenty." He leaned over the sink, elbows locked. 

Worst yet, it kept open the most tempting possibility: Derek Hale's connection to Tris. If Stiles were ever to get information on the rogue alpha, Derek would be the person to get it for him. But would he keep his promises?

A sink away, an LP drying his hands shot Stiles a sideways look, and then made a hasty exit.

*

Trays in hand, Scott, Allison, and Stiles walked from the lunch line to a table three down and one to the left of their regular spot. Stiles shot Scott a grateful look, but Scott pretended not to understand. Scott was the best. Stiles really couldn't have dealt with Jackson today.

They'd barely taken bites of their powdered mashed potatoes before a shadow fell over them. Victoria Argent put a manicured claw on her daughter's shoulder and smiled down at her. Allison groaned, but smiled back, and her mother tugged lightly on one of Allison's glossy coils of hair. 

"Good afternoon," said Mrs. Argent. Scott sat up straight and clutched his fork. Stiles mumbled a response. 

Victoria's cat eyes prowled their expressions. Allison looked suspicious. Scott was stiff and nervous. Victoria's eyes lingered on Stiles before slipping back to her daughter.

"How's everything going, hm? How was the quiz in calc?" 

"Fine, mom." Allison shot a significant look at Scott and Stiles and Victoria held up her hands in surrender. 

"I'm on my way. Just checking in." 

"Anytime," Scott piped up, and Victoria spared him a dismissive glance. 

"Oh, Mr. Stilinski, come by the office after lunch, please." 

Mrs. Argent began to walk away. 

"For what?" Stiles called after her. His raised voice caught the attention of a few nearby students. They turned to look. 

"A talk." Mrs. Argent smiled, all teeth, and walked out of the cafeteria. 

"Dun-dun-dun," said Stiles. 

"Sorry," Allison mumbled. "My mom's sort of…." 

"It's fine," said Scott quickly, and Allison smiled at him. 

Stiles pushed his potatoes around on his plate.

*

"We meet again," said Stiles.

Victoria didn't smile, but she seemed amused, all the same. "How are you doing, Stiles?" 

"Me? Oh, just peachy."

"Good. I understand there's been some new stressors in your life lately."

"You understand that, huh?"

She did smile, then. "I'm not interrogating you, Stiles. We don't have to talk about Hale if you don't want to." 

"Thanks," said Stiles.

"But if he is going to be on school grounds…"

"He's…I mean, there's no reason for him to be," said Stiles. There was no relationship. Just…phone calls. Maybe. "Doesn't he sort of own the place?"

"He doesn't, in fact. But sometimes people need reminding, and if there's no legitimate reason or him to be here…"

Stiles raised his eyebrows. "Y'know, most people would be consoling me on my lost mate-itude." 

"Yes, most people would."

"But not you." 

Victoria looked at a picture on her desk. "Divorce is virtually non-existent among LPs, did you know that?"

Stiles nodded. Everybody knew that. LPs mated for life. 

"We assume that means that mated pairs are happy, but truthfully, Stiles? Most wombed mates end up pregnant within months of mating. Fifteen percent of those drop out of high school, and nearly forty percent of childbearing mates never go on to college. Happiness is a subjective state, but I do wonder…" Victoria tapped her fingers together and let those facts sit in Stiles' mind. "So you see, I was worried you might be…uniquely vulnerable, and truly, Stiles, you have an exceptionally bright future."

His _unique vulnerability_ , indeed. "Noted," he said. "But it's moot." He showed his palms, and then began to push himself out of his chair. 

Victoria rose a few inches with him and held up a hand to stall them both. "That being the case, we have a situation." 

Stiles silently resettled in his seat. Victoria followed. 

"Situation?"

"Yes. Mr. Hale has recently applied for a parking permit."

"How recently?"

Victoria tilted her head. "Two days ago. Is that important?"

 _Before my after school special_. "Not really." 

"Hm. For obvious reasons, there's no way to deny the request." Mrs. Argent's nostrils twitched. "But I felt you should be made aware." 

"That Derek's going to be using the parking lot? All right. Thanks. I am aware." He grabbed the strap of his backpack. 

"Mr. Stilinski, I don't actually enjoy wasting my time." 

Stiles paused on his way out the door.

"Close to the full moon, or during a courtship, LPs have a tendency to fixate. Very occasionally, that fixation can be…unhealthy." Mrs. Argent watched him carefully as she said this, holding his gaze. "I know how we like to gloss over the flaws of LP programming, but that squeamishness has consequences." 

"Are you trying to ask me something here?" 

"Of course not, Stiles. Should I be?"

"Look, where Derek Hale parks his car has nothing to do with me." Probably. 

"Good," said Mrs. Argent. "I'm glad to hear it. And if that ever changes, my door is open."

*

Stiles walked off the pitch with his crosse slung over his shoulder and his eyes searching the tree line. As he approached the locker rooms, Scott fell in beside him.

"Is now an appropriate time to ask about Derek Hale?" 

"Hm?" said Stiles. Was that glimmering beneath that pine tree an abandoned stylus or the zipper of a leather jacket?

"Stiles," said Scott, "is this a thing?" 

"What?"

"Derek."

Stiles shrugged. "No."

They walked through the f-barrier side by side. 

"I think it kind of is," said Scott. 

"You and every gossip rag in CoPA." Stiles flung his crosse at the floor. "Not to mention Mrs. Argent, who I think may actually implant a tracking device in my unsequenced ass just to cock-block Derek Hale. By the way, double wow, I think she'd like to see you stuffed. And by you, I mean anybody with a preset." 

"Really?" 

Stiles looked up at the relief in Scott's tone. "Taxidermy blows your skirt up these days?"

"No, I mean…all LPs?" 

Stiles shrugged and pulled his jersey over his head. "Near as I can tell. Why the hell she chose to come here, of all places, or how she got hired—"

"This is awesome." 

"Come again?"

"All LPs. As in, not just me. She hates my _kind_."

"Yeah, she hates you. I fail to see how this is good."

"I'm the exception to the rule, get it? All I have to do is prove it."

"Right. Just have to lay siege to that hot mess psychological wall built by decades of geneist indoctrination and bigotry."

"Exactly." 

Stiles shook his head, but he smiled while he did. "If anybody could…" 

Scott beamed.

*

"Stiles!" The Sheriff's voice echoed up the stairs.

"What?" Stiles shouted back, hands flicking over the screen of his tablet.

"Get down here. Now." 

Stiles' paused his game. 

As Stiles skidded to a halt in the living room, he was relieved to see the feed utterly devoid of his pale, spotted visage. The screen was filled instead with the luscious blonde hair of Sally Commons, the host of _Sun-Up With Sally!_ , the NBCNN morning show.

"—pictures with you and several attractive specimens." Sally gave the feed a mischievous look, and the studio audience giggled. "How's hunting, Mr. Hale?"

The recorder panned back to her guest. Derek sprawled comfortably in a grey armchair, dressed uptown casual in jeans and a blazer. And—Stiles noticed with a thump of his heart—he wore a smile so bright and wide that it might've belonged to Scott McCall. Except Scott-smiles were full of sunshine and sincerity, and This Derek was all flashing teeth and sex. 

This Derek, Stiles thought, because _this_ was not a creature that Stiles had encountered before. 

"Hunting is…well…" Derek perched an arm on the chair and leaned into his hand, looking briefly away from the recorder. 

"Oh no," said Sally with a smile on her face. "Trouble deciding? You must have the pick of the litter out there." 

Someone in the crowd wolf-whistled. Derek laughed, looked at his lap. "I guess," he said. 

Stiles could feel his dad watching him, but Stiles couldn't tear his eyes from Derek. 

"You don't sound very excited! Nobody's caught your eye?" Sally leaned forward, nearly bridging the gap between their armchairs. 

Derek fidgeted with his sleeve. It was endearing. Utterly manufactured, but endearing. 

"There was…one person." 

"I knew it!" Sally sang. "Have you set a date?"

"Not quite," said Derek. "They turned me down." 

The audience gasped. Sally sat back in her armchair. 

Stiles glanced at the Sheriff, and then quickly away. He didn't know how to look his dad in the eye right now. 

"What do you mean they turned you down?" 

"I mean they told me in, ah, let's say no uncertain terms, exactly where I could stick my proposal." 

The crowd whined and aw'd. Sally shook her head, back and forth, back and forth, like the tail of a dog. 

"They must be crazy!" she said. The crowd surged to agree. 

"No," said Derek, quickly, looking out at the crowd, as if beseeching them to understand. "No, they're…god, they're perfect." 

Sally dropped her arm against the armchair and shot an exasperated look out at the audience. 

"I think you've got that turned around, Derek. We think you're pretty perfect." 

The crowd cheered. 

Derek ducked his head. God, if he wasn't fucking adorable.

"So are you moving on? Must be more fish in the sea for someone like you!" 

"Maybe," said Derek, looking at Sally. He hesitated, then, abruptly, turned straight towards the recorders. "Maybe, but I guess I'm stuck. I found everything I could ever want, all in one person. One great…great person. I don't know how to get over that."

The audience cooed, subdued in response to his sincerity. Sally leaned over and put her hand on his sleeve. 

"Honey, it's called a rebound. And I bet if you gimme a commercial break, we could find you a volunteer." 

The audience laughed, and Derek smiled, still crouching down in his seat like he was uncomfortable on a feed. The tips of his ears went pink. 

As Sally turned to the recorder and began her outro, the Sheriff flicked off the feed. 

"Is that what I think it was?" said the Sheriff. 

"I…" Stiles shook his head—like Sally, wagging his denial. "I don't even know what that was." 

"Stiles."

Stiles met his dad's eyes. 

"Tell me this is done with." 

Stiles licked his lips. "I think—"

"What do you _know_?"

Stiles brushed his thumb across his mouth, then let his arm drop and dangle at his side. "I know the Hales…usually get what they want."

He flickered his gaze away from his dad, unable to stand the Sheriff's unrelenting stare. He jerked, surprised, when his dad laid his hands on Stiles' shoulders and turned them to stand eye-to-eye. 

"What does he want?" 

Stiles shrugged.

"What do you want?" 

"I don't know," said Stiles, feeling petulant, his voice rising in a whine. 

"Stiles." 

Stiles forced himself to look up. 

"Decide."

*

Later that night, Derek's name flashed across the front of Stiles' phone.

"I thought you just wanted to call me," said Stiles, wasting no time on chitchat.

"I'm calling," said Derek smugly. "And what I said was I wanted a chance."

Stiles sucked on his teeth. "And you thought embarrassing me on television was…what? An overture of good faith?" 

"Embarrassing you?" Derek sounded somewhat less sure of himself. 

"Yeah, Derek: embarrassing me. What, you think they can't put two and two together? How many people are you getting your picture taken with these days?" 

"Plenty," said Derek. His voice had turned straight to pissed again, and Stiles' shoulders unclenched. 

"Really. Plenty. Great. That's just…" Stiles shook his head. 

"Yeah, it is, actually. I said somebody perfect turned me down. I never said it was you." 

Stiles gaped like a goldfish.

"Kind of egotistical for you to jump to that conclusion, don't you think? You really think you're perfect?" 

"I—"

"'Cause I do." 

Stiles felt numb. He took a moment to stare at the hand holding his phone before pressing it back against his ear. 

"That's seriously the line you're gonna go with?" he said at last. 

"Just pointing out facts." And the smug was back. Asshole. "Facts like you're perfect for me, and I want you."

"I'm gonna hang up."

"Fine. Can I come to your game?"

"What?"

"This Friday, you have a home game."

"Yeah…?"

"I want to see you play."

"Yeah, well, me too, buddy, but B-Team doesn't play first game of the season."

"Then I want to watch you ride hard wood for an hour, then take you out for a milkshake." 

Stiles choked. "Have you been body-snatched?"

"I know what I want. And it's not for the reasons I said before…or not just for those reasons. I'll prove it."

Stiles chewed that over. "You can go wherever you want, Derek."

*

Scott was in the stands when Stiles settled himself on the bench. The LP game finished before the HSs', and while many of the LP players (and fans) immediately took off for home, enough of them took advantage of free admission to cheer on their HS brethren.

Stiles rubbed his glove across his mouth and promised himself not to chew until at least the second point went on the board. Little steps. 

He glanced behind him and waved at Scott.

*

Three quarters and five points later, Stiles' gloves were slick and sodden. For the third time in five minutes, Stiles twisted on the bench and surveyed the crowd.

Scott furrowed his brows at him. 'Are you okay?' he mouthed. 

Stiles nodded jerkily and turned around. Again. 

Nobody back there but Scott. Why would there be? Dad was working.

*

Two minutes left in the game, Hale Prep was up two. Sties hadn't looked up from the field since the third quarter.

"Bilinski!" 

Stiles' head shot up. Finstock jerked his hand toward the field at the same time a sweaty Cyclone collapsed on the bench. 

Strapping on his helmet with one hand, Stiles took to the field. He lined up for the play, squeezing his crosse between his fingers, tonguing his mouth guard.

The players burst into movement. Stiles tracked the ball with half his attention, and watched the boy he was guarding with the other. The Sunny Creek Trojans knew they were beat; you could see it in every half-hearted pass. Stiles' guy barely gave him a fight. 

The seconds ticked away, and the ball swung down field, towards Stiles. The Hale Prep forwards raced towards the goal, but they ran a few seconds behind the Trojans, at least. Stiles glanced around the field, but no one else was in range. 

He ran, heart galloping, toward the Trojan forward closest to the goal. He saw the Trojan player in possession wind up his shot. Stiles jutted his crosse into the path of the ball¬¬¬, and¬¬—

The ball ricocheted off the edge of his crosse, bouncing across the grass. Players dove on it like carp on a bit of bread, but it was a boy in Hale Prep maroon that scooped it up and fled down the field. 

Less than a minute in the game, and Stiles watched Evans run away with his interception. He glanced at the stands, and then glanced again. 

Derek stood to the side of the bleachers, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

*

Scott waited for him after the game, but as Stiles began to walk toward him, Allison walked up and laid her chin on Scott's shoulder. Their sunny smiles matched.

Stiles hiked his gear higher on his shoulder, and turned around, about to head to his Jeep. He found himself face-to-face with Derek. 

Stiles yelped, then bit his tongue and pretended he hadn't. Derek smirked. 

Asshole. 

"You said you wouldn't play," said Derek. "You lied to me."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Two whole minutes. My bad."

"Yes," said Derek. 

And, somehow, Stiles found himself fighting a smile. Asshole Derek he could deal with. The Derek who did morning shows with Sally and told him he was perfect…that guy was creepy. 

He felt Derek's eyes still on him, tracking his expression. Stiles squirmed, and when the silence was too much, he turned away, back towards his Jeep, and escape. 

"Where are you going?" said Derek. 

Stiles raised an eyebrow. "Remember what we said about—"

"Get food with me." 

Stiles meant to say no. This whole thing was over, he thought. If he wanted it to be over, he should just….

*

He met Derek at Annie's. It was just north of the Park, and had the best milkshakes in BH. He had to keep his father away from the place with a whip and chair.

They wait for a table, standing beside each other like mismatched salt and pepper shakers. Derek keeps watching him, and Stiles begins to twitch, eyes looking anywhere but at Derek.

It became more difficult to avoid Derek's gaze when they slid into their booth. So Stiles stopped trying. He leaned back into the vinyl and matched Derek's assessing look. 

"Where's my sonnet?" said Stiles. 

Derek frowned. "Your what?" 

"My sonnet. The way you were talking on the phone, I assumed you were composing something." 

Derek stretched his legs under the table and looked out the window. 

"Do you… _want_ —"

"Oh my god," said Stiles. "You are really committing to this."

"Was that somehow unclear?"

Stiles met Derek's eyes again, and this time their steadiness did not unnerve him. 

"I guess not," said Stiles. 

The waiter came by and Stiles ordered a burger and a milkshake. Derek got vegetable soup, and Stiles swallowed a joke about vegetarian wolves.

Stiles shredded his napkin and waited for Derek to say something, but he seemed content to watch the other patrons, tracking them with that same unnerving stare, flicking glances at Stiles every few moments. 

"So, what's the game plan here? Romance me into saying yes? Catch with honey what you couldn't get with open-heart surgery?" 

Derek pursed his lips, but he didn't deny it. 

"Christ," said Stiles. He shifted in his seat, the vinyl squeaking. He bounced his foot against the floor. "Just…move on, dude. Just…" He shook his head. 

"Is it really so hard to believe I like you?"

"Do you?" 

"Yes," said Derek roughly.

"Well that's…" Stiles splayed his hands on the table and wiggled his thumbs, scratching at the chipping red paint. "That's…" He scoffed. "Why?" He wished it hadn't come out so quiet, like he actually cared about the answer. 

Derek is silent for a long moment, and Stiles looks up. 

"You fought with your friend," said Derek. "You didn't…" Derek rolled his mouth, lips tight, a twitch Stiles was coming to recognize. It meant he couldn't find the words, and he was frustrated with himself. 

"Not my proudest moment," Stiles supplied. 

"No," said Derek. "You didn't…back down." His hand laid over Stiles', palm warm and dry. Stiles licked his lips, and Derek leaned just slightly across the table. "Not with him or me. I'm starting to think you don't know how." 

Stiles stared down at Derek's fingers lying between his. 

"Liked my big, human mouth, huh?" said Stiles, trying for jovial and strangling it. 

"Among other things," Derek murmured.

"Yeah, well…don't get too excited," said Stiles. 

The waiter appeared at his elbow, and Stiles jerked his hand off the tabletop, making room for their food.

*

Stiles left early for school the next morning, avoiding his dad. He texted him the results of the game, but he knew he couldn't look his father in the face until he had his thoughts sorted out.

He pushed it to the back of his mind and dodged Scott's sidelong glances. Lacrosse practice was a more than welcome distraction. Finstock was happy with them, exhilarated after their win, so they were permitted to actually practice more than run. Stiles scored a goal and made two significant passes by the time they hit the showers. He felt pleasantly empty as he walked to his car, shaking his fingers through his dripping hair. 

He didn't notice the woman until she cornered him against the door of his Jeep. 

"Stiles Stilinski?" she said, and tossed her mane of dark hair. 

"Yes?" said Stiles, looking her up and down. With generous curves fighting against her herringbone suit, and faint crows' feet beside her eyes, she hardly looked like a teacher, and was definitely not a student. She smiled at him, white teeth on display. 

"Got a minute?" she said.

"Um, I—" and he saw the recorder, the one clutched in the same hand as her purse "—no. I don't. I need to go."

He pulled the door handle, and jumped when the woman shoved the door closed and leaned against it. She batted her eyelashes. She smelled of powdery flowers and sandalwood. 

"Come on, cutie, just a minute."

Stiles grabbed the handle and yanked. The reporter stumbled back. He ducked into the Jeep and slammed the door shut behind him. He stared out the window, and the reporter glared back at him.

Stiles backed out of the space and shifted into drive, but before he could accelerate, he noticed someone standing on the field, watching the exchange. Lydia Martin stood beside the bleachers with arms crossed, purse stuck out an awkward angle. He resisted the urge to wave. He ducked his head and threw the Throwback into drive.

*

Stiles was adjusting the height of the Bunsen burner when his partner dumped their bags beside their stool and set the worksheet between them.

"Scott, could you—"

But it wasn't Scott that held out the heating flask. Stiles gaped. Lydia looked pointedly at the flask, and Stiles snatched it up. She rolled her eyes and leaned over the worksheet, scribbling the fill-in-the-blank answers in clean, legible script. 

In silence, they set up the experiment. Stiles watched the timer as Lydia jotted down their observations. 

After a short, pointed discussion over whether their substance had turned orange or yellow (Lydia wrote down orange, and that was that), Lydia turned to him and squinted in an appraising way. 

"I'd call it tangerine," said Stiles.

"Reporters aren't allowed on school grounds," said Lydia. 

"I didn't invite her," said Stiles. 

"Obviously." She picked up the tongs and removed their flask from the flame. "I informed security. There won't be any more problems." 

"Thank you," said Stiles, quietly. 

Lydia hummed and slid the paper closer towards her. 

"I'm surprised she had the gall," said Lydia. "Not a little thing to cross the Hales." 

Stiles laughed, and Lydia raised an eyebrow. 

"They didn't quite 'cross the Hales.'"

"You're not going to tell Laura?" 

"Laura Hale? About the reporter? No. No, I don't really— I don't think she'd be interested." 

"Have you met the Governor yet?" 

"Yet?" Stiles squeaked. 

Lydia looked up and glared at a girl on the bench across from them. The girl flushed and looked back at her worksheet. 

"Yes, Stiles." Lydia picked up their equipment and moved to rinse them out at the sink. She gave Stiles a significant look, so he grabbed the rest of the equipment and trailed behind her. 

"Have you even taken a Mark?" said Lydia, her soft voice covered by the rush of the faucet. 

"Mark?" said Stiles, distracted. He stood close to Lydia's side, holding the equipment she had yet to rinse. She smelled like warmth, vanilla, and citrus. Her hair brushed across his forearms as she rinsed the flask. 

Lydia shook the water from the flask. "How can you possibly be this ignorant? Haven't you done any research on courtship?" 

Stiles decided no answer was the best answer in this situation. Lydia grabbed the last objects out of his hands. 

"Get back to me when you're done eating sand," she hissed. She flicked the faucet closed and walked back to their station, leaving him alone to dry.

*

Stiles stared at the search box. He danced his fingers above the keys of his tablet, wiggling them in the air. He hadn't necessarily been avoiding this, he'd just been absolutely sure that he didn't need to know.

He didn't need to know. 

'LP Courtship' he typed into the box, and screwed up his mouth as the results loaded. 

He opened another tab, this one for Derek Hale.

*

Three hours later, he was a few dozen tabs deep in both subjects. He'd learned the stages of courtship, the basic theories of programming which governed LP inter-pack etiquette, and the five most important pieces of legislation which legalized the LP way of life in CoPA.

The stages made him nervous. Made him think about how warm Derek's fingers felt against the cool of the diner table. 

First, there was declaration. Second, courting, which made Stiles think of Broadway musicals and Jane Austen novels. But the romanticism didn't last long. Stage three was Marking; its Wiki page papered with photographs of deep, purplish bruises on collarbones and necks. Stage four was Introduction; and Stiles couldn’t decide which made him more anxious: meeting Laura and Peter Hale, or introducing Derek to his dad. Apparently, for LPs, Introduction was where everything really got serious. If the pack accepted you, you were in. It was difficult to walk back an Introduction without giving serious offense. 

Stiles tried to imagine a world where his problems were also the problems of Laura Hale, but he couldn't. And yet, on his list of unimaginable things, stage five won, hands down, no contest. 

Stage Five: Claiming, said Wikipedia, and Stiles navigated away as quickly possible, switching to the tabs of Derek's face. 

His research on Derek was less scarring. He'd flicked his way through the Wiki pages and gossip sites, and the picture they painted was of a shy member of a loud family, utterly charming when they caught him on a feed, but never doing anything sufficiently scandalous. 

He'd read about the fire that claimed most of the Hales, and had to stop for a moment, remembering the way his father had come home that day and hugged him so hard Stiles heard his ribs creak. He remembered the way his father's jacket had smelled of smoke for weeks. 

Flipping through the articles and pictures, Stiles considered what he knew about Derek—what he was sure of. It wasn't much. The articles talked about his education—all the best schools—and his place in the company. They talked about a short-lived relationship with some Hollywood starlet, and they talked about the tailored line of his suits. In all his pictures, he smiled, and in his interviews, he dissembled and joked. Stiles didn't like it. It was charming, but it captured none of Derek's intensity. His eyes looked wrong when they weren't staring, tracking, watching with silent, constant question. His answers sounded hollow, ground down to their rounded, family-safe edges.

Stiles exited the windows, closing Derek's face with a brisk tap. 

He was just fooling himself. He didn't know anything about Derek. And if he thought he did, it was because Derek wanted him to.

His finger hovered over a window on Derek's early internship with the Triskele Experimental Station—he'd apparently gone through a scientist phase. That had prompted a half-hour diversion into the Tris internship program, which lead Stiles to some interesting websites on the sequencing of LP DNA and how it interacted with their cybernetic implants. That website had lead Stiles to an ancient artifact of the web—purple background with blue text, animated horizontal rules—expounding on Tris conspiracy theories. The most popular, according to the Wiki, was the Nemeton. 

Since LP packs, and all LPs, to a certain extent, were networked to one another, it was theorized that there must exist some sort of central computer that acted as a biological router. 

Every successive generation of LPs were meant to improve on the last, breeding progressing in directions specifically designed to emphasize certain physical and psychological traits (just like a good member of the AKC, Stiles thought). All that genealogy must be kept somewhere. 

Stiles wondered. 

One, if all that were true, then what happened to an LP who refused to breed? Was it possible that there was something truly _wrong_ with Derek? 

Two…if there was some sort of central node for the LP 'network', it would be possible to find Scott, and from Scott, to find the LP that bit him. 

Stiles chewed on his fingers and pushed his tablet aside. Whether the Nemeton existed or not, the LPs kept exhaustive records. The identity of the rogue was somewhere in those records, waiting for someone with intuition and drive. But gaining access…The Center, possibly, where they sent newly bitten ALP. Or Tris. But accessing Tris was impossible for the Sheriff's department—one kid with a pout was not getting inside. For that matter, his chances of cracking The Center's security were slim to none. 

Not all by himself. 

Stiles thought again about the weight of Derek's eyes. About how his apartment had been warm and comfortable. And how they both seemed locked up tight. 

But beside Stiles' bed, next to the lamp tipped up to disperse its light, Scott and Stiles grinned, their arms around each other, Mickey Mouse ears on their heads. It was the last thing Stiles saw when he went to bed at night, and the first thing he saw when he woke up.

*

"They're circling again," said Stiles.

"Hello," said Derek. His hair stuck up in tufts. Stiles hadn't noticed the time when he'd hit call, but couldn't bring himself to regret it, not when Derek looked like a rumpled kitten in pajama pants and a faded t-shirt. 

"A reporter caught me after practice the other day," said Stiles. "Cornered me." 

Derek's posture stiffened. "Who was it?" he said, his voice unconvincingly flat. 

Stiles waved a hand. "Lydia took care of it. I just thought you oughta know."

"Lydia took care of it," said Derek. 

"You're sorta cute when you're sleepy." 

Derek's eyebrows jumped. 

"So, I was thinking," said Stiles. "They're scrounging for stories, and pretty soon they're just gonna, like, make shit up, so..." Stiles licked his lips. "So you still wanna do this mate thing?" 

Derek no longer looks sleepy. "You mean…" His hands closed into fists, then relaxed. Stiles wondered if his claws itched. 

"I mean yes," said Stiles. "I will be your mate. I get what I want; you get your empty life of solitude, as requested. With one addendum." 

"Yes," said Derek, and Stiles smiled. 

"Okay, eager, I need you to help me with a problem. I need information. Records." Stiles checked Derek's reaction, but his expression hadn't changed. "From The Center," said Stiles. 

Derek frowned. 

"My friend was bitten, and they don't know who did it. You help me find out, and all this"—Stiles spread his arms and gestured to himself—"is yours."

Derek watched him with the same flat expression, his lips pursed. "Fine," said Derek. 

Stiles waited for more, but no more came. "We should, ah…probably go on a date or something, right? For the cameras?" 

Derek nodded. "I'll pick you up after school."

Stiles was about to object—he had his own car, thanks, the chauffeuring did not need to begin quite yet—but the screen had already gone black. 

Stiles plugged his phone into the charger and slid beneath the covers. 

He pressed his face into the pillows and tried to feel something. His heart beat steadily. He didn't feel anxious—he had faith that Derek would come through, as long as Stiles held up his end of the deal. But even as he thought it, a sliver of misgiving slipped in. The risks hadn't changed. It was the rest of his life. It was scary, Stiles thought…but only thought it. He didn't know what it was he felt, but he wasn't afraid.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien  
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien  
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien  
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien

The Camaro felt slick beneath his hand, and he couldn't help but grin at the sour look Derek shot him when he noticed the fingerprints. Across the parking lot, Scott climbed into the Jeep, but Stiles didn't look for him. He'd deal with Scott later. 

And his dad. 

The Camaro purred to life.

"You don’t think a black Camaro is trying just a little too hard?" said Stiles. "I mean, what with the jacket and the—" he gestured to his own face where hypothetical (extremely hypothetical) scruff might grow. 

Derek shrugged. "Not trying at all." 

"Liar." 

Derek might have smiled, but it was gone too quickly to know for sure.

*

They pulled into the Tinseltown parking lot and Stiles shot Derek an incredulous look.

"You don't like movies?"

"I don't think BH411 distributes night-vision recorders to its reporters." 

Derek frowned, which Stiles didn't understand. He climbed out of the car when Derek did. 

The woman at the box office smiled sweetly at Derek as he paid for two tickets for _Wonder Woman_. Stiles bought them popcorn. 

They settled halfway up in the auditorium. Stiles shot Derek glances as the previews rolled. The angles of his face lit up in blue and white flashes. He watched with a slightly crumpled brow, like he was blocking something out, or trying to unravel a mystery. Stiles wanted to tell him it was just a cheap Die Hard knock off, but he didn't.

*

The sun was setting when they walked out of the theater. Stiles vibrated, crumpling the popcorn bag between his hands. Finally, he couldn't hold it in.

"That. Was. Fucking. _Amazing._ "

Derek raised his eyebrows, but a smile teased at the edge of his mouth. 

"Best adaption ever. The jet? The _jet_. Dude." 

"It was all right." 

Stiles shoved at Derek's arm, and then Derek was definitely grinning. He caught Stiles' hand and pulled him closer. 

"Take it back," said Stiles. 

"Fine," said Derek. "It was just okay." 

Stiles jerked his hand away. "Deal's off," he said. He shoved his hands in jeans pockets and marched towards the car. "We're done. Find somebody else. I just can't—I refuse. No." 

He pulled on the door handle, and when it wouldn't open, he shot Derek a pointed look. 

Derek pushed a button on his keys, and the locks clicked. They climbed into the Camaro together.

*

On the way home, Stiles turned on the LiLu. He flicked through Derek's presets and mocked him appropriately, chattering about Wonder Woman canon as he created Derek a playlist with decent music.

"You can afford it," he said, tapping the download button. 

Derek made a few noises of protest, but it was hard to take him seriously with that small, satisfied smirk still clinging to his lips. 

Derek killed the Camaro in front of Stiles' house, and whatever oppressive weight they'd managed to shed pressed back down on them. Stiles lost his words. 

He fiddled with the LiLu for a few more seconds before pushing it back into the console. Derek kept both hands on the wheel. 

"Diner, movie, significant pause in front of my house…" said Stiles, absolutely not at all hysterically. "You get this stuff from a John Hughes movie, or…?" 

Derek didn't say anything. 

"You know, sitting with me in a dark place for a couple hours is actually a pretty bad plan for getting our picture taken," said Stiles. He glanced at Derek, then down at his hands. Then out the window. The window seemed safest. "And you know you don't have to do this anymore for my benefit. Signed, sealed, delivered, babe, just keep up your end of the bargain."

"That's what you want," said Derek. He said it too flatly to be a question, but it didn't really sound like a statement, either. A theory, maybe.

"That's the way it is," said Stiles, just like it was a theory, and he looked at Derek while he said it. 

For once, Derek was the one to look away. "You've made it clear." 

"I've—? You're the one who—"

"I said I wanted a chance, that's all I said."

Stiles stared, lips parted. "You seriously…what, you think I'm not accepting your _feelings_?" 

Derek's hands tightened on the steering wheel. 

"You didn't seriously think I fell for that? _She's All That_ is a classic of American cinema, my man. You were rom-coming me so hard." 

"I have literally no idea what you're talking about." 

"Don't," said Stiles. "Seriously, just…don't. Okay? I can put up with your schizophrenic, cut-throat bullshit, because it's pathetically transparent when you're playing me, but now that it worked, _stop playing me_." 

Derek's eyebrows hunched over again, fuzzy monks over their manuscripts. He watched Stiles the way he'd watched the previews, as if the plot were right there in front of his face, but he needed a minute more to figure it out. 

"Oh, come on," said Stiles. "Say I'm wrong. Seriously, tell me I'm wrong, and this whole thing isn't a means to an end." 

"I don't think I could tell you anything you'd believe," said Derek.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be." 

Derek's nostrils flared. "Fine," he said. He yanked the emergency brake and undid his seat belt. 

Stiles worried he was about to be dragged out of the car, but Derek didn't open the door. He climbed half-over the middle console, arm across the back of Stiles' seat, and crowded Stiles against the door.

If the brushes of Derek's fingers felt warm, then having Derek lean into him with his whole body was like being aggressively cuddled by an electric blanket. Stiles reminded himself to breath, and sucked in warm air that smelled of leather, popcorn, and skin. 

"What are you doing?"

"Initiating our transaction," said Derek. The hand not curved around Stiles' headrest reached for his face. Hot fingers touched below his jaw. Derek brushed his thumb across his cheek, pressed against the edge of his mouth, marked a mole.

"Okay," said Stiles. 

Derek kissed him. Stiles reminded himself to close his eyes, and when he did, he leaned forward, pressing into Derek's chest. He grasped Derek's shoulder. 

They broke apart. Derek's breath fanned over Stiles' face, and his eyes flickered from feature to feature—mouth to either individual eye—too close to really see. 

"Okay," Stiles whispered. Whispering seemed the thing to do. 

He leaned up and pressed them together. He slid his hand from Derek's shoulder to his neck, pulling him down. Derek made a noise and slid farther onto Stiles' seat. They crushed together against the door, leather crackling. 

Stiles felt roasted—warm on the outside, his insides melting to slick heat. He dug his trapped hand into Derek's jacket, twisting his fingers in the leather. He parted his lips, and their tongues touched. Somebody moaned, and Stiles couldn't care which one of them it was. 

He grabbed with both hands, slid his tongue, pressed as close as he could. Derek groaned deep in his chest, and maybe it sounded more like a growl, but no part of Stiles seemed to mind. Derek's hand slipped from the headrest to the window, bracing himself as he broke away from Stiles' mouth. 

Stiles' lips felt bruised and cold. Derek nosed at his jaw, and Stiles closed his eyes, leaning his head back. Derek cupped the side of his head and pressed hungry, open-mouthed kisses on Stiles' neck. He nipped at his collarbone, and Stiles drew in a quick breath through his nose. 

Derek's licks and kisses turned to sucks and nips, and the hand cradling his head began to tug at the collar of his shirt. 

"Derek," said Stiles. Derek hummed and buried his nose behind Stiles' ear, panting. The sound of his breath rushed, impossibly loud. Derek let go of his shirt and ran his fingers over Stiles' shoulder, across the taut line of his neck. 

And he didn't know if it was the scenting, Derek's hand on his throat, or if some part of his brain caught up with the situation, but suddenly their combined heat was sweltering; the air, suffocating; the weight of Derek's body was like an anchor. He couldn't stop thinking of the Marking Wiki, and image after image of deep, purple bruises, ringed by healing teeth marks. 

"Derek," said Stiles again, and swallowed hard on his rising heart. Derek's lips felt horribly slick on his neck; he pushed at Derek's shoulders. He was suddenly aware of the door digging into his back. He could reach the handle, if he needed, and dump them both out on the sidewalk.

But he didn't need. When he pushed at Derek's shoulders, the man leaned back, hands splaying on either side of Stiles' head. Stiles couldn't look up at him, could feel the arousal twisting in his stomach as it was, sour and heavy. 

"Sorry," he said. 

After another moment of confused panting, Derek understood. He pushed himself off the window, back into his seat. 

"Sorry," Stiles said again, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. 

"It's fine," said Derek. 

"I will," said Stiles. "I—I will. I just—"

"Stiles, it's really…fine. It's fine."

Stiles looked up, and found Derek leaning against the steering wheel, one hand carding through his hair. His cheeks were flushed. 

Stiles couldn't help himself—he glanced down at Derek's crotch. The hard, fat line of his erection strained the denim. Stiles glanced away and shifted in his seat. He tried to scold himself for being pleased, but it didn't take.

"Next time," said Stiles. He grabbed his backpack in one hand and the door handle with the other. "I promise." 

He fled.

*

There were pictures after all, though the Camaro's windows were too darkly tinted for any really incriminating photos. The one of him crawling out of the passenger seat was a little suggestive, if only because Stiles' hair was a mess and his cheeks glowed pink. And, of course, the Camaro was parked in front of his house.

Thankfully, the article was a tiny thing, a few bare inches on an online blog. The picture spread to a few forums, but there was no reason for Stiles to worry until well after school was out. He hoped. 

After school, he'd have to talk to his dad. Tell him he's getting wolf-married and stuff. 

Best not to think about it too much. 

His immediate worry was what to say to Scott. He couldn't keep avoiding the issue, and he certainly couldn’t tell him he was doing this to find the rogue. Stiles didn't want to think about the look on Scott's face if he thought Stiles was doing this for him. And he would, though it wasn't true. Stiles was a bullshitter by habit and nature, but he wasn't, as a rule, self-delusional, and none of this was really about Scott. 

Stiles sat on the living room couch and brooded until Scott pulled into the driveway. He looked through the windshield to gauge Scott's expression. 

Not good. 

Stiles' slid into the Throwback. "'Morning," he said. 

Scott grunted, and then put the Jeep in reverse. 

They drove a few blocks in silence. Stiles tried to conjure the right words—the magic words that would explain this situation in some way Scott would accept.

Except, Stiles thought, this was Scott. He didn't want to give Scott spin; he wanted to tell him the truth. Or at least most of it. 

"You're pissed at me," said Stiles. 

"Brilliant deduction." 

"Thank you for taking the Jeep yesterday." 

"Still don't understand why I needed to, but yeah, okay." 

"Really?" said Stiles. 

"Of-fucking-course really. Jesus, Stiles, I've only asked you half a dozen times what you're doing with Hale, but you blow me off. Then you just disappear with him yesterday, and those pictures show up, and now you want to know if I _really_ want to know what's up with you?"

"All right," Stiles held up his hands, surrendering. "I was just…whatever. So, there was a thing. With Hale. You knew that. He offered me…sort of a deal." 

"A deal." 

"Yeah. I'll be his…"

"Mate?" said Scott, as if saying, 'If you can't say 'vagina,' you're not allowed inside one.' 

"Yeah. Yeah, his mate. And in return, I get…you know, everything the light touches." He tried to read Scott's response, but there wasn't much change in his tight jaw and his jerky, straight-armed steering technique. 

"So," Stiles went on, "last night I agreed that…yeah. I agreed."

"You agreed…to be his mate?" Scott demanded, and turned to look at Stiles. Stiles reached over and grabbed the wheel, jerking them back into the proper lane. 

"Please don't kill us."

"You're getting freaking wolf-married?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean…yeah."

"To Derek Hale?"

"He's not that bad."

"He's not…? Yes, he is! He is that bad, Stiles! He is absolutely that bad! He's backed you into a friggin' corner, and you want to ride off into the sunset with him?"

"Okay, given, he's a manipulative asshole, but he's not really that good at it, so that's gotta count for something, right?"

"Stiles—"

"And yeah, it's not healthy, but it's also kinda one of the greatest opportunities I'll ever have, so…."

"That's just…that…this is not a good thing, Stiles. This is not like you won a full-ride to Berkeley."

"It's a little like that, actually."

"There's another other way, okay? There's always another way."

"I don't need another way. I found a pretty good one."

"A way that doesn't include selling yourself to some selfish prick who doesn't give a damn about you." 

"Well I never thought of myself as a two-bit whore, but when you put it like that…." 

Scott looked shocked, and then he stared out the windshield and looked guilty. "Stiles, I'm—"

"He likes me," said Stiles. "And I like him. Even if he is creepy and morally bankrupt. We can live with each other. It doesn't have to be shitty."

"Not shitty is a long way from good," said Scott. 

Stiles had no argument for that, so they sat in silence as Scott pulled into the high school parking lot. 

As Scott tugged on the emergency brake, Stiles thought back through their conversation, trying to assess where they stood. Something tugged at his brain. 

"Pictures?" said Stiles. 

"What?"

"You said I disappeared, and then 'those pictures' showed up. What pictures?" 

Scott pulled his phone out of his pocket and swiped through a couple screens. He held the phone up for Stiles to see. It was the same picture Stiles had seen earlier—the one of him stepping out of the Camaro. Except it was posted on some girl's website, right under a status update about her cat. 

"Somebody tagged me this morning," said Scott. 

"But…it was just a few forums," said Stiles. 

"Guess somebody's got you on Google alerts."

Stiles rubbed a hand over his face and leaned back against the Jeep. If the picture was on social media this morning, it would be all over the school by lunch. 

"Come on," said Scott, nudging him gently. 

"I've developed a sudden case of appendicitis. I can't possibly go on." 

"It'll be all right," said Scott. "Just a few more people to ignore."

*

Everyone. Just a few more _everyone_ to ignore, Stiles thought.

At first, a few stared. A gaggle of LPs stopped talking when he walked past. A few of the utterly hopeless craned over their desks, 'subtlely' peering at his neck. Stiles stared those people down until they looked away. 

After PE, Stiles saw Victoria Argent turn a corner in front of him, and he didn't even pretend to be polite, just turned on his heel and walked in the other direction. 

By lunch, Stiles couldn't wait to get home and pick out china patterns with his dad. 

He didn't think he'd ever been so grateful to see Jackson. If there was anybody in Hale Prep who was less interested in publicizing Stiles' love life than Stiles, it was Jackson. And after a single pointed once-over from Lydia, she launched into a conversation with Allison about a television show. That transitioned into a discussion of superhero movies, and apparently Scott and Allison had gone to see _Wonder Woman_ together a few days ago.

Scott shrugged when asked his opinion, but Allison frowned. 

"Awful," she said. "They had one chance—one—to do this correctly, and we spent like, twenty minutes of plot on the invisible jet." 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles and Allison played point-counter-point as they meandered towards the library. They both had project time for their next classes. 

The librarian at the desk shot Stiles a sour look when he walked through the doors. He waved.

"You know each other?" said Allison. 

"Me and Ms. Farrow have history," said Stiles. 

Allison smiled. 

They drifted apart and took out their tablets, pulling up the check-in app for their classes.

They wandered through the bookshelves and stashed their finds on a corner table, building a nest of reference tomes and lists of ISBN numbers to pull up on their tablets. 

Stiles was thumbing his way through a history of the Second Civil War when he paused on a picture of a wounded soldier. The soldier had removed his helmet, but not his bulky, camouflaged body armor. A cut on his cheek wept scarlet. On the back of his neck, peaking out of his grimy collar was a fading green Mark. 

Stiles looked up at Allison, but she was absorbed in her own project. He looked back down at the book. Embarrassment twisted in his stomach. Here he'd been defending himself all morning, all week, all the damn time, but when it actually came down to it…when it really came down to choosing Derek….

"So, you and Scott are doing pretty well," said Stiles, and silently promised himself never to say that again. 

"Yeah," said Allison, bemused.

"So, would you ever…" Stiles tapped his fingers on the soldier. Allison leaned across the table and turned the book to face her. 

"Take a Mark?" said Allison. 

Stiles avoided her eyes. 

Allison shrugged, and pushed back into her own space. "We've only been dating a few weeks, I really…" She looked down at the table and smiled. It was the sort of smile that made Stiles feel invasive just seeing it. "I don't know."

"But, like, hypothetically. In the future. With somebody." 

"Maybe," said Allison. "My family…I guess I don't really like the idea of it. But it's not disgusting." 

Stiles nodded. He tapped again against the solider. "I couldn't," said Stiles. 

"Couldn't…?"

Stiles shifted in his seat. "I agreed and everything, you know, with Derek, but I couldn't…" He could feel the blush beginning to rise on his neck. 

Allison touched his elbow, and Stiles smiled tightly. 

"It's okay to not be ready," said Allison. 

"I am—" Stiles took a breath. "I am, you know…ready. I just…"

"Okay," said Allison. She opened her mouth, then hesitated. Stiles waved his hand at her, urging her to spit it out. "I know my mom would probably say that you should think about your hesitation, but...you're the one that has to live with yourself." 

Stiles nodded. He looked back down at the soldier, and the way the HS' hands curled around the gun, and the smear of red below his smile where he'd probably wiped his face. 

He made a joke about the invisible jet, and they ducked their heads back over their books.

*

Stiles was barely through the door when his dad emerged from the kitchen, still dressed in his uniform khaki. His mouth was flat as the kitchen table, and he motioned, silently, for Stiles to sit.

Obviously, he had seen the picture. 

They faced one another, and his father studied him. Though every one of his nerves felt frayed, Stiles folded his hands together and pushed them solidly to the tabletop.

"How many times did you tell me this was nothing and over?"

"A few," said Stiles. 

"A few," said his dad, nodding. "And it's not nothing." 

"Not anymore." 

"I'll ask you this just one more time, kid: what the hell is going on?" 

Stiles took a deep breath. "Derek Hale asked me to be his mate," he said. "Not as a joke, or a stunt. He meant it."

The Sheriff rubbed a hand over his mouth. 

"I said yes." 

"When?"

"Last night."

"Last night? And you didn't think, maybe, this was a decision to talk over with— well, no, of course not. Why would you tell your family what you're planning to do with the rest of your life?" 

Stiles felt like curling up in a ball, but he forced himself to keep his eyes up and not to flinch away. If he wanted his dad to respect a decision he'd made as an adult, he'd have to act just a little more like one. 

"It's not for the Bite, is it?"

"No," said Stiles. 

His dad stood up and walked to the sink. He leaned against it.

"What did he offer?" said his dad. 

"What?" 

"You didn't fall in love with this guy, or I would've noticed. And you don't want the Bite. That means he's giving you something else," said his dad, still looking away from Stiles. His voice was cold, like he was analyzing the motives of some perp pinned up on the appboard.

He offered the money that you don't have—Stiles couldn't say. He's going to get me into college—he couldn't say. He's going to help me find the rogue—he couldn't say. His hands are warm, and he thinks I'm brave—he couldn't say. 

"He promised me an independent life," said Stiles. "A comfortable one."

"Did he coerce you?" And all the chill was gone from the Sheriff's voice.

"Not like what you're thinking."

"But he did." 

"I made my own decision, Dad." 

The Sheriff nodded and leaned back against the sink. He re-crossed his arms. 

A long silence. 

"My family thought we were so lucky when Mom was Bitten." 

Stiles sat very still and kept his eyes shifted just away from his father's face. He'd learned as a kid that the best way to respond to mentions of his mother was to treat them as if they were deer. If he sat still, made no noise, and pretended not to notice, they might wander close enough to touch.

"They didn't understand when I turned down the Bite. They didn't understand why she wouldn't give it to you. When you were younger, I admit, I wondered too. Wouldn't it make your life easier, if you could just focus? If you didn't have to worry about skinned knees or broken legs? 

"I wondered why she didn't leave me for the pack. They would have taken her in, if she'd asked." His dad took a breath, and they both pretended not to hear how badly it shook in his throat. "But she told me that being comfortable didn't make her happy; making her own choices made her happy. And she wanted you to be so happy, kid."

Stiles gave in and looked down at his hands. He swallowed around the thickness in his throat. His dad dragged a chair closer to him and sat down, one hand perched on the back of Stiles' chair.

"That's what I want, too," said his dad. 

Stiles nodded. 

"Is this your decision?" he said. 

"Yes," said Stiles. 

His father cupped the back of his neck and shook him gently. 

"Okay," said his dad. "I don't like it, but okay. I want to meet him."

*

Stiles sent Derek a text message: 'Come over 2morrow 4 dinner w/dad. 6pm.'

He wasn't shocked when his phone buzzed three minutes later. 

"Hey, honeycomb," said Stiles. 

There was a long silence during which Stiles grinned and, he imagined, Derek had an internal debate about priorities. 

"You want me to meet your family? Now?" 

"Had to happen sooner or later, didn't it?" 

Another pause. Stiles shifted on the bed, tucking an arm beneath his head. He wished Derek had v-chatted. Having a conversation with Derek without a clear view of his eyebrows was like watching a Scottish movie without subtitles—mostly intelligible, but it took some special focus.

"Should I bring something?" said Derek, at last. 

"Dessert," said Stiles. "Something with chocolate." 

"Okay."

"You can get off work that early?" 

"I'll make it work," said Derek. 

"Just for me, huh?" 

"Yes."

"Fucking adorable. See you later." Stiles ended the call.

*

Once Derek's handshake had been evaluated, and his French silk pie put in the refrigerator, they settled around the table.

Stiles tapped, stroked, and fidgeted his way through the chicken and broccoli casserole. Derek put exactly as much food on his plate as the Sheriff dished up for himself. He ate only after the Sheriff had taken a bite. If he weren't so nervous, Stiles might've narrated the entire episode like a documentary. As it was, he made it his mission to fill the silences with babble about lacrosse and to avoid any real conversation between his father and Derek. 

It wasn't until they'd passed out the pie and coffee that his dad leaned back in his chair and fixed Derek in his sights. 

"I don't like the way you went about this," said the Sheriff. 

Stiles licked the coffee off his lips and set it gently on the table. Derek looked between the Stiles and the Sheriff, finally settling himself on the Sheriff. 

"I can understand that," said Derek. 

The Sheriff nodded. "I don't like how young he is, legal or not." 

"Dad—"

"Stiles," said the Sheriff, a warning, and Stiles shut his mouth. "I expect my kid to graduate and go to college. I expect he has a long, human life, and if he ever decides that life doesn't need you in it, I expect he'll walk away without a problem." 

"I expect that, too," said Derek.

"Can I get that in writing?" 

"Dad, come on, you're really—"

"Yes," said Derek. 

The Sheriff raised both eyebrows, but when Derek didn't smile or take it back, he nodded, once, in acknowledgement. 

He changed the subject to basketball. 

He shook Derek's hand again when he was leaving, holding on to him longer, this time. 

"Long time ago, I knew your parents," said the Sheriff. 

Derek's polite expression didn't flicker, but Stiles saw his hand tighten around his pie tin. 

"Good people," said his dad. "I look forward to meeting your sister." 

Derek nodded, and the Sheriff released him. Stiles hovered beside the door, and his dad shot him a pointed look before climbing the stairs. 

Stiles walked Derek to his car. 

"You did well," said Stiles sagely. 

"Didn't feel like it," said Derek. 

"What did you expect?" 

Derek looked away. Something metallic crunched. Stiles looked at the pie tin in Derek's hands, and sighed. He grabbed the edge of the tin and tugged. Derek stared. 

"Give," said Stiles, tugging again. Derek relinquished it, and Stiles peered at the deep indents made in the sides. The leftover pie collapsed around the damage. "I don't think I can trust you with this," said Stiles. "I'm taking custody of this pie."

"The pie is fine." 

"It is now." Stiles tucked it against his side. Derek looked at the pie, then up at Stiles' grin.

"You're a thief." 

"You're a stalker." 

"I—" Derek huffed. Then he paused, and quirked his head to the side. "Are you nervous?" 

"Are you spying on my internal organs?" said Stiles. 

"Why are you nervous?"

"'Cause," said Stiles. He thumbed the lip of his jeans pocket for a second more, worrying at the stitching. 

Stiles put a hand on Derek's shoulder and leaned forward. He paused, close enough to feel Derek breathing. Derek closed his eyes and ate up the distance, pressing their lips together. 

He tasted of coffee and chocolate, and Stiles felt twin tides of relief and arousal rush through him. It was just like it was. It was good. 

Stiles reached with his free hand, curling his hand around Derek's waist, tucked snug between Derek's t-shirt and his jacket. 

They separated, but not far, just enough to feel the evening touch their lips. 

"We shouldn't, here," said Derek. 

He was right. Stiles looked up and down the street. Empty, for now, though who knew which neighbors were peering from their windows. 

Who cared?

Stiles grabbed Derek's wrist and marched across the street, back towards his house. 

"Stiles?"

But Stiles didn't answer. He set the pie on the ground to unlock the side gate, unwilling to surrender his grasp on Derek. He tugged Derek into the shadows between the Stilinski House and the windowless side of their neighbor's house, an alley full of sun-bleached pots and a rusting mower. Stiles pushed Derek into the siding, and grabbed the collar of his jacket with both hands. 

Stiles kissed him like it was an argument. After a second of confusion, Derek's hands settled on Stiles' back, and he pressed them together. 

Nothing else felt the way this felt—made Stiles molten on the inside, and tender on the out. Derek's hands on his body made him shiver, nimble and needy, like he was fighting and pleading at once. They pushed themselves closer from mouth to knee, pushing together with teasing friction. 

Derek's stubble scratched against his neck; his lips slid after to soothe. 

He slid his fingers through Derek's hair. 

"Will you…?" Stiles asked, as Derek kissed the hollow of his throat. 

"Anything," said Derek. 

Stiles laughed. 

Derek abandoned Stiles' neck and returned to his mouth, kissing him like it was the last time. It wouldn't be, Stiles was sure. Suddenly, he was so sure. 

He let go of Derek and undid the first three buttons of his shirt. Derek broke their kiss and leaned back, into the siding of the house. It was too dark for Stiles to see more than the vague shape of his features, but when Stiles pulled his shirt down to bare his shoulder, Derek lifted a hand to trace the shape of it. 

"Now?" said Derek. 

Perhaps Stiles should have felt exposed, but with the two houses looming over them, and the shadows covering them, he felt safe. Alone. 

Stiles leaned closer and slid his hand back into Derek's hair. 

"Whatever I want," Stiles reminded him. He guided Derek down to his shoulder. Derek pulled the shirt away, and he breathed against Stiles' skin. Stiles shivered and curled his fingers tighter. 

Derek pressed a kiss to the freckled skin. Stiles felt the long, slick edge of a fang. 

And Derek bit.

*


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien  
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien  
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien  
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

When Stiles was twelve, he used to run up and down the back yard and bang a stick against the chain-link fence. Ms. Nancey's Rottweiler would follow him—up and down, up and down—barking at the stick. Ms. Nancey didn't care, but his mom would stalk out onto the back porch and yell at him. 

'Keep teasin' that dog,' she'd say. 'You just keep on, and one of these days….'

And one of those days, the Rottweiler grabbed the stick through the metal diamonds of the fence and yanked it over to his side. 

Jaw set, Stiles stuck his Star Wars sneakers through the links and scaled the fence, dropping down into Nancey-land. The dog didn't care; they knew each other. The enemy was the stick. The dog was too preoccupied with stripping the bark from the enemy and grinding up its ends into soggy, white fiber, to pay any attention to Stiles.

Stiles reached his hand down to reclaim his stick, and Ms. Nancey's dog nearly tore off his little finger. 

Stiles wasn't sure what he expected the Mark to feel like, but for the first few seconds, all it felt like was a bite. Stiles grabbed at Derek's shoulders, and Derek held him tighter. A warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the terrible pressure on his shoulder released, and the pain…drained away. It felt like having his blood drawn, only instead of handing him a cookie, the nurses cleverly replaced his blood with—as his mother once called them—The Good Drugs. 

"Wow," said Stiles. 

Derek didn't say anything. He pressed his face against Stiles' cheek. 

"I think we should've done this indoors," said Stiles. 

Derek huffed, the warm air raising bumps on Stiles' shoulder. Stiles reached to do up the buttons on his shirt, but Derek was holding him too tightly. 

"My modesty," Stiles protested. 

Derek hushed him.

"I have very sensitive nipples," said Stiles. "They need insulation." 

Derek made a low, rough sound, and—oh, a growl. That was definitely a growl. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, Derek let go. Immediately, Stiles' neck began to ache. When he rolled his shoulder, a sharp pain streaked through him, and he hissed. Also, it was cold. His sensitive nipples were hard and peaked. 

Stiles did up his buttons, managing all but the last one before Derek threw his leather jacket around Stiles' shoulders, wrapped him like a biker burrito, and pulled him back into his arms. 

When Derek tucked his hand back around Stiles' neck, the aching and pinching siphoned away. 

"All right," Stiles murmured, speaking primarily to Derek's collarbone. "Warmer now." 

"We should have done this inside," said Derek. 

"Why are you pissed? You're not the one bleeding in an alley."

"You're not bleeding."

"Pretty sure I saw fang, dude. Some fangish action went down here tonight."

"You're not bleeding," said Derek again. "Marks heal fast."

"Is it a spit thing?" said Stiles. "Like a spider? Are you coagulating me for later consumption? Freakishly accurate, oh my god." 

"Sort of," said Derek reluctantly. 

"Super-special bite powers. Awesome. How do Alphas Mark, anyway? Is LPism, like, their own personal STI?"

"They can transfer the power temporarily. But most Alphas don't take HS mates." 

"You take offense at the weirdest stuff," said Stiles. "Like, I call you out on your frat-boy bullshit and you get all butt hurt, but call your preset an STI, and not even a bitch-face." 

"You're chatty."

"I'm high, I think," said Stiles. "Does your magic spit get me high?" 

"Didn't you do your research?" 

Stiles thought. "Pain drain," he said, and wiggled one of his hands beneath the jacket. 

Derek hummed his acknowledgment. 

"I think my dad knows we're out here," said Stiles. 

"Yeah," said Derek. 

"I should go," said Stiles, but he leaned harder into Derek's chest. 

Gently, Derek lifted his hand away from Stiles' neck. The ache returned, but it didn't throb, and when Stiles rolled his shoulders, nothing pinched. Derek relaxed his hold. He slid his hands from around Stiles' back, down his arms, and stopped to perch them on Stiles' elbows.

"You want your jacket?" said Stiles. 

"Keep it," said Derek. 

"Do I get your pin, too, Johnny? Or is this just a scent thing?"

"Hm…" Derek leaned in and tucked his nose behind Stiles' ear. It tickled, so Stiles laughed. Derek rubbed their cheeks together, doubtless leaving angry, pink scruff rash in his wake. 

"Jerk," said Stiles. 

Derek pulled away, and before he turned to leave, Stiles swore he saw a flash of white smile and lambent, blue eyes. Stiles caught Derek's t-shirt, pinching the fabric over his belly. He tugged until Derek looked at him. 

Dark. The house shadows covered them both. Derek's heavy brow made holes in face where his eyes should be—like twin wells. 

"What?" said Derek. 

"Take the pie," said Stiles. He nodded toward the open gate. Beside it, the French silk pie lay nestled in a pot of dead rosemary. "Be nicer to it."

*

The bruise earned him stares and whispers, at first. Scott looked pained the first time he saw it, but he held his tongue, and if any of their classmates ogled Stiles' neck for an impolite duration, Scott was the one to send them scattering.

But the interest in Stiles waned quickly. Test season was approaching, and once his classmates got over the novelty of having Stiles being Hale-Marked, he was just another HS with a bite on his neck. 

Now that Stiles had one, he was always glancing at the necks of classmates, the cashiers at the grocery store, and the women sitting in the box office at the theater. Several of his classmates wore their own Marks, and Stiles wondered what their mates were like. If they were waiting until they were older to take the Bite, or if they never would. He wondered if their courtships had been anything at all like Stiles'. 

Interest in Stiles and Derek waned even more quickly in the media. For a week or so, reporters blitzed Stiles' house and Derek's apartment, but the intrigue of whom Derek would choose was gone. They could only stretch the novelty of Stiles' being unsequenced for so many articles before it started to look seriously classist. And if the curiosity over why Stiles hadn't been turned when he was Marked (the traditional point of transition for mates) was never quite satisfied, it was still barely enough to keep the recorders clicking. 

His dad was happy when he could park the cruiser in his driveway without playing Twenty Questions. Stiles was happy to be left the hell alone, though he didn't exactly dread his publicity dates with Derek. 

The kissing was nice.

Derek still turned on the shark-charm to get what he wanted, but lately, not with Stiles. The more Stiles and Derek went on aimless walks around the park (for easy access to photographers); movies (because Stiles liked movies and Derek couldn't grasp the concept of fake-dating); and dinners at Stiles' house (because his dad still didn't like any of this and insisted on getting to know Derek); the more sarcastic and withdrawn Derek became when they were alone. At first, Stiles was worried that he'd done something wrong, but then it occurred to him that Derek seemed much more relaxed when he was only breaking his silence to snark. Maybe quiet was just his natural state. 

Whatever. Talking was Stiles' natural state, and Derek didn't seem to mind. 

He talked about the regional cuisines of Italy as they walked back to the parking lot after lunch. Their restaurant had been completely inauthentic. Derek said it didn't matter, his linguine had tasted fine, and Stiles accepted this as the challenge it surely was.

He was about to start in on the difference in regional sauces (Derek looked like he was about to shove Stiles through the nearest storefront), when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, still talking. 

Scott: 'SOS'

Stiles trailed off and pushed the call button. 

"What's wrong?" said Stiles as soon as he heard Scott accept the call. 

"I'm stranded," said Scott. 

"Where?"

"At the lookout point. Y'know, in the woods? With the big rock?"

"I know that rock. How'd you get all the way out there? Did you see a squirrel or something?" 

Stiles glanced at Derek, but he seemed unperturbed, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets. Stiles resisted the urge to pat him on the head—he wasn't sure he'd get his hand back. 

"I was with Allison," said Scott. "Y'know, we've been, uh… _yeah_ , and her parents found a hickey on her shoulder. It wasn't a _Mark_ or anything, but they completely flipped shit, and, like, forbade her from seeing me." 

"So you ran away with the Lady Argent?"

"So we had a date," said Scott. 

"A rendezvous in the forest," said Stiles, nodding. 

"But, dude, her dad followed her car, and when he got out they started screaming at each other, and then she had to go home, and it's like, raining, so…." 

"Gotcha. Yeah, I'm up north, but I'll be there soon." 

Scott said his thanks, and they hung up. 

Stiles looked to Derek. "You get all that?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, so, can we…raincheck?" 

Derek's mouth thinned. "Fine." 

Stiles stared. "Okay." He wasn't even about to dissect why Derek was pissy. He started walking again, heading back to the Jeep in double-time. Derek lagged behind him. 

Stiles slid his card at the parking garage appwall while Derek caught up with him. 

"I'm sorry I'm cutting this short," said Stiles.

"You said that already," said Derek. "And I said, 'Fine.'" 

"Wow, that just…fills me with confidence."

"I'm glad."

"Oh my god." Stiles turned to face him. Derek glared to the side of Stiles' face, but he refused to look directly at him. "What is wrong with you?"

"How do you know Allison?"

"What?"

"Allison, the girl Scott is so in love with"—he sneered around 'in love'— "is an Argent. Isn't she." 

"Yeah?"

"You've never talked about her. You never said you knew the Argents."

"Why...would I? She's just Scott's girlfriend, Derek. Actually, no, she's my friend, too. She's a good friend. What is your malfunction?"

"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with me." Derek turned to the appwall and took out his wallet. He punched his information into the app, pressing so hard little rainbow spots appeared on the screen around his fingers. He mumbled something, scowling. 

"What was that?"

"I said I should've had you properly vetted to begin with," said Derek. 

Stiles stepped away from Derek. "What?" But Derek glared at the appwall and didn't turn to look at him. 

"You know what, asshole? I'm not the one who started this," said Stiles. 

"So you've said," said Derek, still not looking at Stiles. 

"Yeah, well, started or not, I'm still the one who's upholding up his end of the deal. What've you done?" 

That did get Derek's attention. 

"Really, Derek, what have you done? Except fuck up my life monumentally? When does this little sham of yours start paying dividends?" 

Derek ripped his receipt out of the wall. "What do you want?"

"Uh, what I told you. I need information. And so far you've been completely useless." 

Derek glared at him, and Stiles glared back. 

"You're right," said Derek. And he stalked away. 

Stiles marched to the Jeep. He threw the door closed behind him and pressed his hands on the back of his neck. He dragged them down his trapezius, trying to press out the tension. It made his healing Mark twinge, and Stiles snarled.

*

It wasn't technically a home game, but they were playing the high school in the south of town, which was almost the same thing. When Stiles looked up from the field at halftime, Derek still wasn't in the stands.

Stiles pulled his glove right side out, smoothing down the wet spots. He reassigned his attention to the field. Finstock had been putting him in more often, the last few games. Stiles should focus. If Derek wanted to be in fight, they could be in friggin' fight. 

Or maybe it wasn't a fight. Maybe this was the other shoe dropping, and everything before this was the sticky part of the honey trap.

Either way, there was nothing Stiles could do about it in the middle of a lacrosse game.

*

Stiles took a long time in the showers, waiting for the rest of the team to trickle out. He turned the water off when only a few boys still stood around the benches, talking over the last few goals of the game. They'd won. They were off to a late night diner to celebrate with milkshakes and pancake platters.

Stiles pulled on his clothing and managed to escape the locker room without saying a word to anyone.

Across the parking lot, Stiles spotted Scott. They were supposed to go out after the game, too. Scott loitered by the Jeep, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed across the parking lot. Stiles didn't need to look to know he was watching Allison. 

Maybe they'd just go home and play Mario Kart.

He was so intent on making it to Scott, he didn't notice the boys circling him until one of them stepped in front of him, trapping him between two sedans. 

Stiles stopped and stared at the black-haired boy blocking his path. The boy smiled. Buckteeth, Stiles noticed. And acne. He was scrawny. When Stiles tried to move to the side and pass him, he ducked in front of him. Behind Stiles, a boy laughed. 

Stiles turned slightly away from Buckteeth, enough to see the three boys blocking off his exit. 

All of them had the stringy, underfed look that Stiles associated with the southeast. One of them wore a t-shirt with a cougar on it, South BH Wildcats printed over the top. They all went to this school, Stiles thought. The one Hale Prep had just creamed. 

"I thought it was you," said Buckteeth. His breath stank like beer. "Recognized you from the papers." He stepped into Stiles' space. He was a little taller than Stiles, his nose at the height of Stiles' forehead. 

Stiles flexed his grip on his bag of lacrosse gear, considering how fast he could clobber Buckteeth and run out of his trap. Would the other three be fast enough to catch him? Would anybody see them?

None of the harsh orange floodlights stretched their halos as far as this corner of the parking lot. But maybe if there were a fight, somebody would notice the commotion. Maybe he could knock into one of the sedans and set off the alarm. 

Somebody shoved him from behind, and Stiles flailed, crashing into Buckteeth's chest. Buckteeth shoved him backwards. Stiles grabbed at the car on his left, but his hands slipped, and hands behind him grabbed at his shirt, yanking him off-balance again. 

Dropping his gear off his shoulder, into his hand, Stiles swung the bag around, aiming at the posse's faces. They backed up, and Stiles' gear clattered against the car. He turned to ram himself into Buckteeth and make his escape, but the taller boy grabbed Stiles' wrists, and a posse member grabbed his gear and yanked it off his arm. 

"Look at that," said Buckteeth, right into Stiles' ear. "Nothing like a little V on V action." Stiles thrust his elbow back and caught a glancing blow on Buckteeth's ribs. He ripped himself away, twisting to find an escape, and then someone's hand collided with his face, sending him sprawling across the opposite car. 

Two of the posse moved in, but Buckteeth snarled at them, and they backed off.

The third delinquent hung back, hands stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie, Stiles' gear hanging from one elbow. "Josh," he said, "you said—"

"Shut up," said Buckteeth—Josh.

"Get out of my way," said Stiles, glaring up at Josh. 

"Or what? You'll call the Sheriff?" 

"Maybe he'll call his boyfriend," sneered one of the posse. Somebody's cold fingers trailed down the back of Stiles' neck, and Stiles threw an elbow. It hit air.

"Maybe I'll get you all fucking arrested," said Stiles. "Or maybe I'll just ask an LP friend of mine to look into it." 

Josh laughed, and the posse followed. Even the reluctant boy in the back quirked a smile. 

"You think you're so much better than us," said Josh. He sauntered towards Stiles, backing him up tighter between the car and the other boys. 

"You think 'cause they let you go to their fancy school and lick their fancy paws, that means you're one of them?" Josh scoffed. "You think your daddy gets elected 'cause they want a fuckin' tape runnin' this town? You pathetic little lapdog."

"I'm clearly the pathetic one here," said Stiles. "What with there being four times as many of me as there are of you."

Josh didn't flinch. "We even the odds when we have to. We don't all get the Stilinski option—face down, ass up." 

Stiles' first swing landed on Josh's cheek with a smack. He'd barely cocked back his elbow for a second shot when someone grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him backwards. Stiles flailed and kicked behind him, but his captor twisted him around and smashed Stiles' face into the roof of a sedan. 

Everything blurred. There were hands on him—grabbing, pinching, hitting—and Stiles flailed. His elbows slammed against the ground, and the car, and occasionally a body. His shirt ripped. 

He struggled with one of the posse boys, backed against a car door, when suddenly the boy was gone—thrown back into the other car. 

Something rumbled, low and rough; Stiles knew a growl when he heard one. He looked up for the source, and there was Scott, standing in front of him, face shifted, his eyes glowing topaz. 

"Back up!" a man yelled. "All of you, get the hell back!" 

A man with light brown hair pulled Josh and his boys out from between the cars. They scampered away. 

When he'd cleared the HSs, he approached Scott, hands open and held up. His posture lifted his jacket away from his side, and Stiles saw the familiar bulge of a gun on his hip. 

Scott's eyes snuffed out like candle flame. His face smoothed. He grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and put him on his feet. 

"Are you okay?" said Scott. 

"Stiles?" said the man behind Scott. He'd put his hands back down to his sides. 

"'M fine," said Stiles. Except speaking made his jaw hurt; he winced. 

Scott frowned and put his hand on Stiles' arm. A familiar fuzziness crept through Stiles' body, dulling the ache in his head and the stinging on his hands and knees. 

The man walked up on Stiles' other side. Moving slowly, eyes on Scott, he grabbed Scott's wrist. 

"That's for later," said the man. Scott looked at him wide-eyed. "If you do it too soon, he won't heal properly." 

Reluctantly, Scott released Stiles' wrist. The pain flooded back in. Stiles leaned on the sedan behind him to avoid falling flat on his face. 

"Spoil sport," said Stiles.

*

Nobody called the cops, which was a minor miracle, Stiles thought. The nice man who'd broken up the fight turned out to be Allison's father—Christopher Argent. He sat Stiles in the back of their SUV while he retrieved from their trunk the most comprehensive first aid kit Stiles had ever seen outside of a hospital.

Scott hovered near the back bumper, watching Chris clean and bandage Stiles' wounds. Allison stood beside him, and the tension between them—the way their hands hung at their sides, less than a foot apart—made Stiles anxious just looking. Victoria Argent stood beside her husband, providing new bandages and watching Stiles with solemn eyes. Stiles avoided her gaze. 

Chris kept him entertained as he worked by telling stories of LP pain drains gone terribly, terribly wrong. Stiles didn't think it was entirely for his benefit. By the end of the story about the girl in the car accident, Scott looked distinctly pale, his hands curled tight on his elbows. 

Apparently, the girl's LP boyfriend had started taking her pain immediately after the crash, and kept taking it as they loaded her into the ambulance. When he let go, the pain flooded back in all at once. She went into shock and almost died. 

Stiles wasn't sure he liked Chris Argent.

In the end, Chris said he didn't seem to have a concussion or any sign of internal injury, though it'd be smart to have him checked out at the hospital. Stiles just wanted to go home. 

Reluctantly, the Argents released Stiles into Scott's custody, and Scott drove him home.

*

The Camaro lay in wait across the street from Stiles' house. Stiles groaned and smashed his forehead against the window.

"You want me to get rid of him?" said Scott. 

"No," said Stiles. "I'll deal with it."

Derek climbed out of the Camaro as Scott pulled into the driveway. When Scott cut the engine, Stiles sighed. He undid his seat belt, steeled himself, and opened the door. 

He saw Derek's eyes widen, and then he was beside him, crowding Stiles' shoulder, eyebrows crunched together as he scanned Stiles up and down, taking note of each bandage and smudge of dirt. 

"What happened?" Derek demanded. 

Scott stepped towards them. Stiles caught Scott's eyes and shook his head. Scott frowned, but he backed off. 

"Hey," said Scott, "keys are in the door." 

"Thanks," said Stiles. "You're the best, dude." 

Scott nodded—yes, he was the best. He cast one more suspicious look towards Derek, then turned towards home and started walking. 

"What _happened_?"

"Let's go inside."

*

Derek followed him so closely, Stiles was surprised he didn't step on his heels. Stiles pretended it meant nothing, didn't matter, and he led them into the kitchen. His dad was working late, and wouldn't be home for a few hours yet. Stiles threw his keys on the counter and opened the refrigerator.

"Stiles, I swear to god." 

"I got jumped," said Stiles, examining a Tupperware container full of leftover pasta. 

"Who?" said Derek, a touch of LP bass in his voice. 

"Some assholes from the school we beat." Stiles shrugged and flinched when it pulled at his sore shoulder. 

Derek appeared beside him again, hand already up and out. Then he paused, curled his fingers under, and tucked it back at his side. Stiles shoved his spaghetti in the microwave.

"I'm sorry," said Derek. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows.

"I should have been there." 

Stiles laughed. Derek scowled at him.

"Why are you even here now?"

"I texted you earlier," said Derek, arms crossed over chest. It was then Stiles noticed the manila folder he held, stuffed beneath one leather-clad arm. 

"Guess I was busy bleeding and stuff." Stiles pointed with his fork. "What's that?" 

Derek tossed the folder on the kitchen island. A photograph spun free, and Stiles put his finger on it, tilting his head to get a look. 

An eviscerated woman stared up at the camera with grey, unseeing eyes. Stiles stopped touching it. 

"Whoever bit your friend has been busy," said Derek. 

Stiles opened the folder. He flipped through the white sheets of information and stared at the glossy photographs. 

"It's a copy," said Derek. 

"How did you print it?" Printing a file like this could land you in some serious trouble—taking it out of The Center without authorization could send Derek to jail. 

Derek shrugged. 

Right, Stiles thought—Hale.

Inside the folder was a record of every attack connected to the rogue's genetic profile. Some of the pictures were of limp, dismembered bodies, while others were snaps of throats, and arms, and sides—the injuries of the Bitten. 

Stiles caught a flash of floppy, black hair pushed away from a purpled throat, and Stiles shut the folder. 

"Is it what you wanted?" 

Stiles chose not to respond to that. The microwave beeped, and Stiles turned to it, pulling out his spaghetti. He swiveled to the fridge for the parmesan. 

When he turned back to the island, his spaghetti was on a plate, and the Tupperware was in the sink. Derek leaned over the folder, slowly flipping through the pages. 

Stiles slid his plate up next to the folder, and gently tugged it away from Derek. Derek watched him settle against the counter, and Stiles could feel his eyes. Stiles shifted, skin prickling under Derek's gaze. Finally, he lifted his right wrist—the sprained one wrapped in an ace bandage—and flung it out in front of Derek's nose. 

Derek glared at him. Stiles wiggled his fingers.

Derek took Stiles' wrist and moved to stand behind him, his other hand smoothing over his Mark. If Stiles' cheeks pinked just the faintest bit, it was only because Derek was so damnably warm. Moments later, Stiles' aches faded. The floating, high feeling was weak this time. 

Slowly, reading each report, Stiles worked his way through the folder. He took bites of the spaghetti, awkwardly twisting the fork with his left hand. A few red droplets splattered on the photographs, and Derek looked at the fork as if he was considering taking over. 

"I will stab you in the face before you feed me," said Stiles. 

"I'll stab myself in the face before I feed you," said Derek, but it was clearly a lie, and Stiles was not fooled. 

He paused on a photo of a male victim, one who hadn't survived. He had blonde hair, or had had at some point. It was caked with mud and blood in the photograph. His eyes were closed. Beside his head, his body lay limp, curled towards him like a question mark. 

"This doesn't make sense," said Derek. 

"What doesn't?"

"This," Derek touched the photograph.

"It's pretty awful."

"It shouldn't happen." 

Stiles didn't say anything, just turned his head to watch Derek's face. 

"It's against programming," said Derek. "No Alpha should abandon her Bitten. No one should kill potential pack like this, it's…counterproductive." 

Stiles looked down at the photograph. "Programming," he said. "Sounds like instinct to me." 

"Sort of. Human instincts say breathe, breed, be afraid of predators." Derek rubbed a thumb across the Mark. "Programming's more specific." 

"Stronger?"

"Yes."

Stiles nodded. He felt flushed and a little nauseous. He pulled his wrist away from Derek's hold. Derek's thumb stalled against the Mark, and then Stiles felt the pain return, throbbing from his jaw to his hip. He gritted his teeth and waited to acclimate.

Derek dropped his hand away from Stiles' neck and stepped back.

"Before," said Stiles, "you said an Alpha could…loan their powers out for a Mark." 

"It's not like borrowing the car keys."

"But if you can transfer physical attributes, can you transfer other things?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Stiles ran his fingers over the folder. "If you're all synced up somehow, it…" Stiles sighed. "Can't I just scan your system for malware? Find this bastard through the mystical brotherhood of the wolf?" 

"Laura would skin you for calling it a brotherhood."

Stiles snorted. He leaned against the counter and rubbed his hands through his hair. 

After a long moment of silence, Derek spoke again. "There might be…something."

Stiles' looked up through his fingers. 

"But if there is…it's at Tris. I heard things, when I was an intern. But that was a long time ago, and the clearance level you'd need…" 

"It's your damn company." 

"It's not," Derek snapped. "It belongs to the pack." 

"You mean to Peter." 

Derek sucked on his teeth.

"You don't think he'd…?"

"If he knew something, he would've turned it over to the police."

Stiles stared, and after a moment, Derek dropped his gaze. 

"Yeah," said Stiles.

Outside, a car door slammed, and Derek jerked around. 

"You didn't hear him coming up the street?"

Derek didn't answer. 

"Look, you…shouldn't be here for this," said Stiles. "I'm gonna have to handcuff him to the cupboards as it is. Yeah. You should go."

Stiles gathered up the file folder and nodded towards the front door. Derek slipped out just as his father walked onto the porch. 

"Sheriff," said Derek, ducking his head. 

"Derek," said the Sheriff, eyes narrowed. He leaned into the foyer, and Stiles saw the exact moment that his dad saw the bandage on his wrist and the bruises on his face.

As Stiles slipped the folder behind his backpack, his father marched into the house. He was at Stiles' side as quickly as human legs could carry him.

*


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien  
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien  
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid  
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien  
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

Stiles could name each of the victims and describe their final meals, and he felt no closer to the identity of the rogue. The attacks weren't random, but the pattern was weak. They all took place near the night of the full moon, and all the victims had lived in Beacon Hills. Most of them were from Southeast, but the jogger and the accountant had both lived north of The Park. Some of the kills were obviously botched Bites, bodies left with one hip chewed and no other marks but defensive wounds. Other victims were barely identifiable. 

Stiles tapped his fingers against the picture of the boy with the question mark body. This was what he knew: Alpha powers could be temporarily transferred for a mating Mark, which meant they could be theoretically transferred for other reasons; only an Alpha, or an LP empowered by an Alpha, could Bite an HS; some of the rogue's victims were successfully Bitten, which meant the attacker had Alpha powers; there was a limited number of Alphas within five-hundred miles of Beacon Hills, but there were thousands of LPs, any one of whom could be the rogue. 

The police interviews of the Alphas were useless. No Alpha would admit to having their status stolen, even if they had noticed. And there was always the possibility that the rogue was working under orders. While each of the interviewed Alphas had denied, in front of an LP interrogator, that they had any knowledge of the attacks, it wasn't impossible to cover a lie if you phrased your answers the right way or knew the proper techniques. 

So, basically, he'd narrowed the suspect pool down to...any LP in the BH area. 

Stiles shoved the photo back into the folder and swiveled around in his chair. He called Scott.

*

Stiles was three energy drinks and two movies into the evening when Scott's cell phone buzzed. Face smashed against a pillow, Scott tilted the phone just enough to see the name. He almost tumbled off the couch answering it. 

"Allison?"

The more Allison talked, the more lines appeared on Scott's forehead, the more concerned his responses became. 

Stiles stood up and stretched. He started looking for his car keys.

*

Stiles had barely pulled up the emergency brake when Scott out of the Jeep. Allison stood in the middle of the clearing, an arm crossed over her chest, and the other in front of her face, tangling her hair against her chin. When Scott touched her, her shoulders eased down. She leaned into his chest. Scott pressed his face against Allison's cheek, and Stiles looked away. He busied himself with undoing his seatbelt and clambering down from the Throwback. 

Stiles kept his distance, at least pretending to give them privacy. He kicked at the underbrush. He opened a new game of Star Crusher on his phone. He collected supernovas until he heard Allison say something about the Hales.

"Did you say Peter Hale?" said Stiles. 

Scott glared at him over Allison's shoulder. Stiles grimaced apologetically.

"Yes?" said Allison, glancing between Stiles and Scott. "He's been interfering in my parents' work. Stalling permits, scaring clients...."

"Blockading important work is sort of Peter's hobby," said Stiles. He shuffled closer to her. "He's playing politics with the Sheriff's department, too."

"You didn't tell me that," said Scott. 

"I'm telling you now."

Scott shot him a dirty look. 

"You mean he's interfering with the rogue investigation?" said Allison. 

"Interfering is a strong and completely appropriate word for it." 

"Wait, what do you know about the rogue?" said Scott, looking at Allison. She bit her bottom lip, glanced at Stiles, then looked back to Scott. 

"My family," she said, "moved here—"

"For the booming home protection market."

Allison grimaced. "Yes, and…because of the attacks." 

Scott's grip on her hand loosened. Allison clutched at him. 

"It's not bad," she said, "I promise. They're part of Quicksilver.”

Stiles and Scott looked at her with twin blank expressions.

“They work on HS rights legislation,” said Allison. “When there's a lot of ALPs in an area, they move in and make sure the Bites were all consensual. It's nothing bad."

"Then why you didn't you just tell me?" said Scott. 

"I wanted to," said Allison. "I did, but I didn't want you to think it had anything to do with us."

"Doesn't it?" said Scott. 

"No," said Allison ferociously. She squeezed Scott's hands between her fingers. "That's why I called you." She looked at Stiles again. "I was worried. Sometimes, the Quicksilver people can get a little…over eager."

"What does that mean?" said Stiles. 

"They're setting traps," said Allison all in one breath. She tugged on a tendril of hair before flicking it behind her shoulder. “It's a method of catching LPs with poor control on the full moon—the ones who roam and might hurt somebody. They didn't tell me they were doing it, but when I saw the stuff in the garage—"

"I thought you said your parents weren't involved?" said Stiles. 

"They aren't…usually." Allison looked at the ground. She fell silent. 

Scott slipped his hands around her face, palms cupping her cheeks. She looked up at him. He smiled. Allison smiled back, relieved. Her fingertips brushed against his knuckles. 

"I knew you were trained," she said, "but without an anchor, it's hard, and I thought…." She shook her head. "When I tried to confront them, they wouldn't listen. They didn't even understand the problem; they said all the good LPs would be on their moonporches, anyway."

Stiles didn't say it aloud, but he thought the Argents might be on to something. If they had a reliable way of attracting loose LPs, it would be better than combing through the entire population, looking for somebody ambiguously crazy. And yeah, probably a couple of innocents would have a pretty terrifying full moon, but as long as no serious harm was done….

"Allison," said Scott, "of course I have an anchor. Don't you know that?" 

Allison blushed, and they leaned together, foreheads brushing. Stiles turned on his heel and walked back to the Throwback. 

For another fifteen minutes, Stiles occupied himself with his phone. He stopped every few minutes to shake out his wrist, the sprain still tender. Scott and Allison talked with their heads pressed together, kissing each other between questions. Stiles tried not to watch too closely. He ignored the noises.

He didn't think about scruff burn or warm arms. 

Finally, Allison walked back to her car, and Scott climbed in the passenger side of the Throwback.

*

Stiles had just finished replacing the bandage on his wrist and was about to turn over and go to sleep, when his phone buzzed, knocking obnoxiously against his lamp. 

"Did I wake you up?" said Derek. He slumped on his leather couch, tie pulled loose around his neck, blazer folded beside him.

"Yes," said Stiles, "and I'm very upset, so you better state your business." 

"How are you feeling?" Derek leaned over the phone, blocking the apartment and giving Stiles an awkwardly detailed view of his stubble.

"Fine," said Stiles. He shifted on the bed, feeling each of his injuries twinge like dogs lifting their ears when their names were called. "Peachy. My dad takes my friggin' temperature every two hours, so don't worry about it. Was that the only reason you called?"

"No." Derek slid a hand over his face. 

It occurred to Stiles how tired Derek looked, and he wondered why the man was working late. He didn't ask, though. It felt strange to ask about Derek's work. Off-limits, somehow. 

Derek settled back against his couch. "Are you free this Friday evening?" said Derek, and Stiles frowned at the formality. 

They hadn't talked about Derek's tantrum in the parking lot, but things had been stiff since that afternoon. Stiles didn't know what to say. If Derek was waiting for an apology, he'd be waiting a long, long time. Maybe it was better to just let it lie.

"I'm free every day,” said Stiles, “it's in the Constitution.” He leaned over the side of the bed and reached for a stylus on the ground. He’d been looking for it, and it gave him an excuse to stop examining the size of Derek’s pores. 

"I think you should meet Laura." 

Stiles paused with his shoulders and head still hanging low. "You mean you think we should be Introduced?" he said. 

"Yes." 

Stiles dropped the stylus beside his lamp. 

"Something wrong?" said Derek. He tried for nonchalant, but Stiles could hear the tension. 

By selecting yes, you agree to the Terms and Conditions described herein. 

"No," said Stiles. "I think that's a good idea."

Derek didn't smile, but he maybe looked just a little less exhausted.

*

Despite the college admissions season, making an appointment with Victoria Argent was easy as dropping his name. 

He's always thought of Mrs. Argent as a vaguely threatening figure pushing her way into his business, but in light of new information, her concern made sense. It almost made him…grateful. He'd completely ignored her, and planned to keep ignoring her, but in her creepy, overbearing way, she seemed to want the best for him. 

Not for Derek, though. Derek she'd happily chain up and throw sharpened pencils at for target practice, Stiles thougt. Sometimes Stiles felt like joining her. 

She was already seated behind her appdesk when he closed the solid, soundproofed door behind him. 

"Stiles," she said, setting down her stylus. "I was surprised to see you on my schedule." 

Lie, Stiles thought, but he didn't let that bother him. He settled into a visitor's chair. 

"How are your injuries?"

"Still injured, but I'm told that's normal."

"For some people," said Mrs. Argent. 

Stiles smiled. "I didn't come here to talk about Derek." 

"Did you want to discuss your applications? With your test scores—"

"Actually, I wanted to talk about Quicksilver." 

Mrs. Argent went very still. "Ah," she said. "For obvious reasons, I don't like to wear that hat in this office."

"I think we both know that's not quite true." 

Mrs. Argent folded her hands across her desk. She leveled her cat eyes on Stiles. "How can I help you, Mr. Stilinski?"

"I think we can help each other," said Stiles. "See, I know about the traps, and I know which sections of the BH penal code they violate."

Mrs. Argent's eyes lost any trace of warmth, and Stiles squeezed his hands on his knees and made sure to swallow instead of gulp. He had absolutely no doubt that this woman could smell fear, and if he wanted this to work, she had to believe he'd make good on his threats. Still, he couldn't help the way his heart pounded, or how much he felt like a little brown mouse. 

"I'll keep my mouth shut," said Stiles, "if you help me with a project." 

"What sort of project?" 

"Don't worry," said Stiles. "It's nothing you haven't done before."

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
>  
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien
> 
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
>  
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

Stiles couldn't stop stroking the table cloth. He knew it was weird—he should definitely stop—but it wasn't like he was eating, anyway. It all looked delicious—the sweet potatoes, the scallops, the salad with scratch-made dressing—but if he tried to put anything in his stomach right now, it'd end up all over somebody's shoes. The Governor's, with Stiles' luck. 

Of course, she wasn't the Governor anymore. He'd called her that when they shook hands in the doorway. She'd laughed and told him to call her Laura. 

Stiles looked around the table. Derek sat beside him, spearing vegetables on his fork. Laura, meanwhile, was on her second glass of wine. She'd fetched it from the cellar and poured it herself. Normally, she'd explained, there was a Janice—a housekeeper? Servant? Highly advanced Roomba?—who cooked and poured wine, but this was a family dinner.

Peter, on the other hand, made absolutely no effort to be anything but his terrifying self. He sat on Laura's left and spent most of dinner baiting his niece into arguments about politics. The rest of his time he spent smirking at Stiles.

In a moment of childish self-indulgence, Stiles wished his dad had come. But it wouldn't have been appropriate. They could all meet when Stiles was pack. 

If he was pack. 

Stiles picked up his fork and decided to give the sweet potatoes another try. Like a big boy. 

"Jordan told me he dropped by your office, and little Alice wouldn't let him in the door," said Peter. 

Laura swirled the wine in her glass. "I don't need the report. I've read the report. When you called me, I told you I'd already read the report. I said that if you sent Jordan to my office, he could leave the damn report in my inbox if he wanted, and Alice would throw it out. I guess I lied a little: she recycled it."

"All right, but if you've read the report—"

"I have."

"And you understood the report—"

"My darling uncle—"

"I just want to know what you're thinking." 

"I'm thinking I'm not done thinking yet."

Peter opened his mouth, but Laura turned away from him. She exchanged a look with Derek. 

"Stiles," she said, and flashed him a smile. "Derek says you're interested in criminal justice. Were you thinking law school?”

I'm thinking about getting the hell out of Beacon Hills, Stiles didn't say. "Maybe," he said. "I'm more interested in detective work. Probably end up somewhere with initials. You know: DEA, FBI, whatever." 

Peter snorted into his wine. Derek glared at him. Stiles didn't look at him. Yes, those organizations were dominated by LPs. He refused to let Peter bully him in front of Laura. 

"Interesting," said Laura, also pointedly ignoring her uncle. 

"Yes, fascinating," Peter drawled. "In fact, you should lend us your insight, Stiles. Laura’s got a little problem she doesn’t want me to solve.” 

"Peter," Derek growled. 

Laura flicked her fingers towards Derek. "I’m interested, actually. We could some fresh eyes." She turned back to Stiles. "The report we’re talking about is the results of a study performed on a sample group of penitentiaries. Most of the new prisons are segregated by designation, but the old buildings had to be retrofitted, and sometimes it just"—she clicked her tongue—"was not done well." 

"They're losing money," said Peter bluntly. "After the Kohlman case, the LPs have to be put in the yard on Moonday, but you can't put these people in with HSs when they're shifted." 

They looked to Stiles. 

Stiles took a deep breath and tried to not think about his heart rate. "I don't really see…?"

"LP guards are getting more hours," said Derek. 

Laura nodded. "And HS inmates get less yard time, but that’s a whole different issue. Wardens can't afford to redistribute the schedules equally, and they can't give LPs all the night shifts. The unions would go nuts. I've already had both sides in my office, blowing smoke up my ass about public endorsements." 

"So how 'bout it, Stiles," said Peter, perma-smirk in place. "Solution?" 

"Um," said Stiles. 

"Don't you have aides to work on this? Ones you pay?" said Derek. 

"Let me have some damn fun," said Laura, and smacked her brother on the arm. 

"Don't worry about it," said Peter. 

"Do the LP prisons have medical wings?" said Stiles. 

Laura tilted her head. "Peter?" 

"Of course they do."

"Why?" said Stiles. "I mean, I know why, but they don't really need them, do they? So you don't need as many personnel there, and you don't need the same materials on hand. That at least solves the money problem. Right?"

Laura beamed at him. She turned to Peter and raised her eyebrows. 

"If I could throw out US law on a whim, you think I'd be calling you Governor right now?" 

"Fucking feds," she said, and Peter and Derek smiled. It must have been an old joke. "It was brilliant while it lasted.”

Laura stepped out of her seat and fetched the wine from the mahogany buffet along the wall. She walked around the table, filling their glasses. She even poured Stiles an amber inch, then winked and poured the rest of his water in with it. Diluted enough, the aconite wine wouldn’t make him sick. 

Laura upended the rest of the bottle for herself, and reclaimed her spot at the head of the table. She lifted her glass. The light from the chandelier reflected on her hair and bent through the cut crystal wine goblet. All over, she gleamed. 

"To our imperial overlords," said Laura. 

"God bless America," Peter added. 

Stiles drained his glass.

*

They moved to a different room for coffee and dessert because of course they did, but mostly because Laura complained that the chairs were hurting her ass.

Stiles sidled up to Derek on their way from the dining table to a decadent sitting room a corridor down. 

"You didn't tell me there would be a practical section," Stiles whispered. 

"The essay portion comes later," Derek whispered back. 

Stiles licked his involuntary smile, and Derek watched with a glint in his eyes. 

"You're the wolf-Kennedys. I hope you know that.”

"Take the loveseat," Laura commanded, pointing towards a burgundy couch. 

Stiles and Derek obeyed. 

They settled into the new space, Laura seated on a couch across the coffee table from Derek and Stiles. Peter leaned against the fireplace and slipped his phone out of his pocket. 

"So who the hell in your division is responsible for the puppy commercial with the fish?” said Laura. “'Cause I’d like to know who to steal for my ad spots.”

Stiles blinked vacantly at Laura, but then Derek started speaking, and Stiles realized the question was about Derek's work. Apparently, Derek made ads. Ones about puppies that made his sister cry. 

Stiles shifted on the couch and listened while Derek talked for a full five minutes—Stiles clocked it—about some pipsqueak part-timer named Rachel who stole a project right out from under Derek's team. 

He said things like, "If Carey could organize herself at all, she might have seen it coming," and, "Nick took the lead on that," and, "they got it done." But the way he said those things was the way Stiles heard his dad talk about bane rings his deputies had busted, and the 'goddamn pictures all over the desks' of wives, husbands, and new babies.

Stiles hadn't thought about Derek having people. Other people, anyway. 

"Who's Carey?" said Stiles. 

Derek furrowed his brow at Stiles. "A copywriter," he said. "She works with me." 

"And what are you foisting on the unsuspecting public this week?" said Stiles. 

Derek huffed. 

“It’s a hose attachment,” said Laura. She mimed holding a garden hose. 

"It's for your lawn,” said Derek. “It disperses the water more evenly." 

"Wow," said Stiles. "That may be the most useless thing I've ever heard of." 

Derek scowled and puffed his chest. Laura looked downright giddy, and Stiles realized why when Derek launched into an explanation of the 377CDS (Cone Dispersal System, Stiles learned), and how it was made by Jargon Pipes, who made industrial pipelines that transported oil through Canada. It was the very best product on the market, apparently.

"You stole all that crap from Carey," said Laura. "I'm telling." 

"Actually, that’s all me. Carey's taken some time off," said Derek. 

"What's wrong?" said Peter, and Stiles was surprised to hear the concern in his voice.

"Her husband's in the hospital," said Derek. "Lung cancer."

"Have they applied for a Bite?" said Peter. 

"I didn't ask."

"But they know you," said Laura.

Derek shrugged and shifted on the couch, leaning into the back cushions and not looking at Stiles at all. 

“But they’ve got to know I’d make an exception,” said Laura. “It’s Carey and Bill; I can clear an afternoon somewhere.”

"I didn’t ask.” Derek bit off the end of each word.

Laura held up her palms in surrender.

"The Bite's a big risk for a compromised immune system," said Stiles.

"Not as big a risk as cancer," said Laura. 

Stiles was suddenly curious how many HSs Laura actually talked to on a daily basis. He suspected not many.

"It's a coin toss," said Stiles. "Fifty-fifty, if it's past the early stages." 

"Fifty-fifty is better odds than chemo," said Peter. 

Stiles looked at him. 

"But you know that," Peter added. 

Derek leaned forward, blocking Peter's view of Stiles. 

Stiles pushed himself to the end of the couch cushion and peered around Derek’s knees. "That's the take rate," he said. "And if it takes, there’s a five percent rate of recurrence in LPs.”

"Five percent?" said Laura. "I never knew that. But that's practically nothing. And most people have regular screenings, don't they? You catch it early, and—"

"Laura, shut up," Derek snapped. 

Laura stared at him, shocked, but then she glanced at Stiles, took in his tense shoulders and his compacted posture. She smoothed a hand down her skirt and averted her gaze. 

"Of course, it's a personal choice," said Laura. "We have to respect that." 

"Don't we," said Peter.

Stiles took a gulp of his coffee. 

"Yes," said Laura, glaring at her uncle. 

Silence fell. 

Stiles centered his coffee mug on a coaster. He felt Derek shift beside him, and then there was a warm arm behind his neck. Derek brushed against the Mark with the side of his thumb. It was meant to be comforting, Stiles was sure, but it just reminded him that he'd chosen to be here. That wasn't comforting at all. 

Laura's mug clicked down on the table, left just beside her painted, ceramic coaster. She stood. "Stiles, let's take our walk," she said, as if they had a standing date. 

Stiles nodded. The essay portion, he thought. Derek's hand trailed over his back as he stood up.

Laura led him to a side door. She looped their arms together, and they stepped out onto a paved walk. 

The grounds were unlit. The moon, a few days from full, washed the grass silver up to the treeline and stained the pine trees in the Preserve beyond. The stone flagstones they walked upon cast short, black shadows on white paving sand. 

Laura leaned into him. "Forgot it was fucking winter," she said. The air cut through Stiles' shirt. "Wanna go back for coats?"

"I'm all right."

"Well, fine," she said. "Be a man about it." 

In the middle distance, a figure stood on the crest of a hill, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. A twin silhouette stood near the door to the mansion, dressed snugly in a suit and coat. 

"How's the hubby, Rick?" said Laura, her volume conversational. 

After a moment’s wait, she smiled. "He says fine," she told Stiles. Stiles nodded. 

"Alan?" 

The ruins of the old Hale house peaked over the hill. They weren't close enough to see the front porch, or the flower garden, or the memorial sculptures. It was the sort of art where pictures of it became art, too, and hung comfortably in galleries and museums. 

"Alan's kid wants Thanksgiving this year," she said. 

"We do that at my house, too," said Stiles. 

"I always liked that holiday. A whole day in celebration of gluttony."

"I keep trying to convince my dad it’s a metaphorical feast, but I end up making turkey anyway.”

"I remember the Sheriff. Good at his job, isn’t he?" 

"He likes to think so." 

Laura snorted. 

A new silhouette appeared on the hill and traded places with Rick. Rick walked back towards the house, waving at Laura when he passed. She waved back. 

"They really like you, don't they?"

"I'm delightful, Stiles, of course they like me." 

Another silhouette appeared to relieve Alan of his post. 

"To be honest, Stiles, I don't know what to say," said Laura. "I've never been a sibling-in-law before." 

"Me either," said Stiles. 

"Oh, thank god for that. Derek might cry."

Laura tugged his arm and led him off the path. They walked toward the hill overlooking the Hale house. 

"Don't worry, though," said Laura, "Derek cries about everything. Just ignore him until he stops." 

"I think you're trying to trick me," said Stiles. 

Laura laughed. She stood at the crest of the hill and planted her hands on her hips. Together, they looked down at the Hale house, the flower garden, and the sculptures. Drowned in the shadow of the house, it all looked black. 

"You're nobody's fool, are you, Stiles?" 

Stiles slipped his hands in his pockets and watched Laura's face, cast in shadows and silver-blue like Derek at the movies. 

“Let’s go down,” said Laura. 

Stiles’ eyes widened, but she was already on her way, balancing on first one foot, then the other, shucking off her slippery shoes. She walked down the hill in her bare feet. 

Stiles looked back at the house and wondered if Alan and Rick’s replacements would tackle him if he ran. 

With no better option, Stiles followed her down the hill. 

“You don’t think they’ll miss us?” said Stiles. 

Laura didn’t answer. 

The ruins of the house grew, stretching upwards like shadows in the setting sun. The lower Stiles climbed, the less he was able to see. At the base of the hill, Laura didn’t wait for him, but slipped into the flower garden, shoes clasped in one hand. Stiles jogged to catch up.

Brown stems scratched his slacks and ankles. Laura’s feet didn’t slap against the flagstones like Stiles’ did. 

The first statue they passed was on their left, a little girl cast in bronze, constructed of abstract lines and twists of metal that seemed too delicate to hold together. She was lit in part by the moon, hidden in part by the shadow of the house. 

Laura didn’t pause, but her pace slowed. 

“Have you ever been here?”

“Just seen the pictures,” said Stiles. 

“It’s beautiful in the spring.”

Stiles nodded, though Laura hadn’t turned her head to look at him. 

They passed another statue, this one of a young man, maybe a few years older than Stiles. 

“Derek comes here a lot,” said Laura. 

She slowed down to a stroll, letting Stiles catch her up until they walked side-by-side, crowded together on the narrow strip of pathway. 

“I...didn’t know that,” said Stiles. 

“You wouldn’t; that’s why I told you.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say, so, for once in his life, he didn’t say anything. 

“You should come here one day when you can see it properly,” said Laura. “Not with Derek.” 

“Yeah,” said Stiles. 

Laura stopped and turned to him. “I’m sorry for the morning show,” she said. “That was crappy of him.” 

Stiles searched her face, but her expression gave away as much as the blackened facade of the Hale house. 

“Yeah, it was pretty obnoxious,” he said. 

“I talked him into this whole thing to begin with,” she said. “I don’t know what’s happened with the two of you, but he didn’t do this because he wanted to. You should know that.”

Stiles chewed on his words before spitting them out. “Did you think Derek wouldn’t tell me?”

Laura looked away—towards the house, Stiles realized. 

"I wasn’t sure,” she said carefully, picking around the words the way a gardener might weed a flower bed. “My brother is remarkably good at getting what he wants. But he’s fucking useless at knowing what's good for him." 

Stiles looked at the house, too. 

“You’re good for him,” said Laura. 

Stiles bit back a denial. He realized he didn’t really know if he was or not. 

“I worry you’re going to realize how bad he is for you.”

Stiles did look at her then, both eyebrows lifted. She looked pained, almost pitying. 

“Why does everyone think this is news to me?” said Stiles. “All due respect, Governor, if your brother wore a sign around his neck that said, ‘beware falling baggage,’ his issues couldn’t be more obvious.”

“I’ve never heard anyone call Derek obvious.”

“Maybe not to your face.”

And the moonlight seemed to flash in her eyes. She smiled, consideringly, and then dragged her eyes over Stiles, taking him in.

“Are you sure you don’t want the Bite?”

“Yes,” said Stiles. 

“Too bad,” said Laura. 

“Not to me,” said Stiles. 

“No, I guess not.”

She began walking again. 

“If…” Stiles hesitated. “If I did get the Bite,” he said. 

Laura looked at him. 

“If I did...it would be Derek, right?”

“Of course.” 

“Right, you’d transfer your powers, and…”

“Sort of,” said Laura. “I don’t do it consciously. Given the right variables, it’d happen naturally.” 

“Programming,” said Stiles. 

“Programming,” Laura confirmed. 

“And the right variables are…?”

Laura side-eyed him. “On the full moon, when he Claims you. Haven’t you heard the pop songs?”

Stiles blushed and hoped the darkness would cover it, but judging by Laura’s delighted expression, she could smell the blood rising or see in the dark or some shit. Fucking LPs. 

“Can it happen any other time?” said Stiles. 

“What, the Bite?”

“Transferring powers.” 

“No, of course not.” Laura sounded aghast at the suggestion. 

“Right,” said Stiles. 

They walked in a silence. Laura looked off to the side of the path, her brow furrowed. 

Suddenly, she stopped walking. “Why would you ask that?” 

Stiles tried not to panic. “Just wondering,” said Stiles. “Derek talks about programming and variables like it’s totally natural. If it is natural, seems like there’d be more than one way to complete a function.”

Laura frowned, but didn’t say anything.

“Maybe,” she said finally. 

“Maybe?”

But Laura didn’t get the chance to elaborate. Like a hound who’d heard rustling in the bush, she swiveled her head to look up the hill. Standing at the crest was her security detail, and in another moment, they flanked Laura in the garden.

“Stiles,” said Laura, eerily calm, “Paul’s going to take you inside the house.” 

Before Stiles could ask, Laura and the other agent were gone, twin blurs racing up the hill. 

“Mr. Stilinski, I need to escort you back now,” said the man with the glowing eyes. 

“What’s going on?”

“I need to escort you back to the house immediately,” said Paul again. The way he shifted on his feet made Stiles think he was about two seconds away from being flung over Paul’s shoulder and hauled.

Stiles chose to preserve his dignity and walked back down the path on his own.

*

Paul flanked him all the way inside the house, guiding him, not back to the formal sitting room, but to a room tucked away in the basement. This one was older, less elegant, stuffed with scratched coffee tables and oversized furniture. In a monstrosity of a custom built-in, a giant screen glowed with a news feed set on mute.

On the feed, a warehouse burned. 

Paul disappeared when Stiles walked through the door, but Derek took his place, rising from the couch and materializing at Stiles’ elbow. He brushed his hand over Stiles’ Mark.

“What’s going on?” said Stiles. 

Peter stood in the corner, scowling, speaking rapidly into his phone. Laura stood in the other corner, looking equally solemn. She had one hand clamped tight on an elbow, while the other pressed a cell phone to her ear. 

A young blond stranger in a running suit spread tablets and papers over a coffee table. The blond man’s hair was gelled in the front and mussed in the back, like maybe he’d done his hair in a rearview mirror. 

“There was a bomb in Portland,” said Derek. 

Stiles looked back at the feed. Black smoke poured out of the warehouse roof, flames dancing and flashing below. In the bottom left corner, the title card read, ‘Terrorist Strike in Portland.’ 

“A wombing facility,” said Derek quietly. 

“What?” said Stiles. 

Derek didn’t answer. 

Stiles looked again at the plumes of billowing black smoke. Now that he looked, the building wasn’t anything like a warehouse. Its walls were covered in clean white stucco. The lawn that wasn’t flaming red or trampled into mud was green and manicured. It was just an enormous building, that’s all. Sprawling. 

“How many?” said Stiles. 

“They’re still putting out the fire,” said Derek. 

“How many?” Stiles insisted, but Derek just squeezed the back of his neck. 

“Jay, I need that list,” said Laura. The blond man snatched a tablet off the table and chucked it towards the the Governor. She caught it one-handed. 

Laura paced in her bare feet, dirt-blackened toes leaving streaks on the carpet. 

“We’re about to go into lock down,” said Derek, “But I can take you home in an hour or two.” 

“Okay,” said Stiles. His brain was numb. 

Three people bustled in from the hallway, ferried by two more security guards. They were all in pajamas and coats, arms full of tablets and packets of paper. They picked up two more tables and shoved them towards the blond man’s work station. Two of them dumped their materials and immediately dug their cell phones out of their pockets. After another minute of tense conversation, Laura joined them at the island. 

The blond man didn’t wait to be prompted. “FBI liaison is on his way,” he said, shoving a tablet into Laura’s hands. “Homeland Security wants access now, but Oregon’s blockading.” 

“Good,” said Laura. “Dickinson?”

“Demanding evidence from the Brotherhood investigations. Homeland’s dragging their feet.” 

“Fucking feds,” said Laura, but she wasn’t smiling this time.

“Brotherhood’s not claiming it,” said another aide. She sat crosslegged beside the table, clad in a suit of pajamas printed with snowmen. “It’s all speculation so far. Nobody’s popping their head out.” 

Peter strode across the room and thrust his cellphone at Laura. “Dickinson,” he said. 

Laura took the phone. 

“Governor,” she said, walking away from the island and back towards her corner. “What a terrible tragedy….”

Peter looked up from the tablet in his hands. “Derek,” he said, “we’re going to need you soon.” 

Derek nodded, hand still draped around Stiles’ neck. 

“I can get a ride from my dad,” said Stiles. 

Derek shook his head. “I’ll—”

“It’s not a big deal,” said Stiles. Except that was a lie and they both knew it. 

“Stiles,” said Laura, projecting across the room, her cellphone pressed into her shoulder. “You should stay.” 

Stiles glanced towards Peter, who stared at Laura with an expression Stiles couldn’t read. 

“Okay,” said Stiles.

“Okay?” said Derek. Stiles looked at him, took in the worried crunch in his forehead and the lines around his eyes. 

Stiles didn’t answer him, just located the nearest couch and sat down. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called his dad.

*

Two hours later, Stiles and Tasha—one of Laura’s aides—came back from the kitchen, arms full of coffee carafes and platters of food from the fridge.

They settled crosslegged beside the island. Derek claimed the spot on the couch behind him, and Stiles leaned back into his shins. 

The aides traded cell phones for coffee mugs. A dozen people descended on the table, arms tangling.

“Stiles,” said Tasha, enough warning for him to look up before she dropped a tablet in his lap. 

He and Tasha had made fast friends, and apparently friends proofread friends’ press releases. Especially when friends were seventeen and otherwise completely useless. 

Derek reached over him and grabbed a plate, dishing up a double portion of the disappearing provisions. He bumped against Stiles, pushing them both forward, hovering over his shoulder. 

“You could’ve asked,” Stiles murmured. “Or maybe moved just a whole two feet to the left.” 

Derek nudged him with a knee. “Eat,” he said. 

“In a minute.”

Derek put a hand against Stiles’ forehead and tugged, pulling him back against his knees. Stiles looked at him upside down.

“It’s going to be a long night,” said Derek.

“Then I’ll have plenty of time to eat later.” 

Derek ran a thumb over Stiles’ eyebrow. The room buzzed around them, the air full of tense conversation and mugs clicking on coasters. With Derek leaning over him, it seemed to fade. 

“Don’t go soft on me, now,” said Stiles. “You’ve still got senators to bully.” 

“They let Peter bully the senators,” said Derek. “He’s scarier.”

“True,” said Stiles. “What is it you do around here, again?”

“Sell things,” said Derek.

“Look pretty,” Stiles corrected. 

Derek stroked his other eyebrow. His hands framed Stiles’ face, fingertips resting on his cheekbones.

Stiles shook his head, pulling out of Derek’s hold. His cheeks were flushed; he could feel it. He didn’t look up because he didn’t want to know if people were staring or not. Probably not—they were busy. They were all very, very busy with the dead children. 

Stiles picked up his tablet. He stared at Tasha’s document for a few seconds before giving up. He pushed himself off the carpet. A security agent watched him slip out the door and pad down the corridor in his socks. 

Stiles shuffled into the kitchen. The inside of the freezer would be cool. He swung open the door and stuck his head inside. 

Leaning against the ice machine, he savored the chill, a sensation as far from the warm brush of fingers as he could get. In here, the world smelled like plastic and frostbitten steak, and nothing like Derek’s ‘unscented’ laundry soap. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Stiles hit his head against the top of the freezer. 

When Stiles disentangled himself from the bags of hash browns, Derek was already behind him. Derek’s fingers slipped around Stiles’ wrist, veins turning black with Stiles’ bruise. 

Stiles yanked his wrist away. He hissed through his teeth when his head throbbed. “God, you didn’t leave right after me?”

Derek didn’t say anything. 

“Fuck, now they think I stormed off. I don’t storm off.”

Derek lifted his eyebrows. 

“I just...needed some space,” said Stiles. 

“From the—”

“From everything,” said Stiles. 

Derek reached out his hand again and shot Stiles a questioning look. Stiles pressed himself back into the countertop, and Derek tucked his hands in his pockets. 

Stiles rubbed at his wrist and kept his eyes on his hands. “Can people hear us in here?”

“No?”

“Good.” Stiles took a deep breath. “Did you tell your sister about our deal?” 

Derek took a long time to answer, but Stiles refused to look up until he did. “Did she say something?”

“Don’t answer my questions with questions.” 

“Well, I don’t know what to say, Stiles.”

“Did you tell her or not? It’s not freaking complicated.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Derek. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t figure it out. She reads people for a living, and she knows I...”

“Don’t want a mate.” 

Derek stared at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back into the island. They faced each other with their arms locked up, tilting in opposite directions. 

“Are we pretending with your family?” said Stiles. 

“Do you want to?” 

Stiles wished he could growl. “This is your part of the deal, Derek. I’m getting what I want.”

“Yes,” said Derek. “We should pretend for them.” 

“Fine,” said Stiles. His heart fluttered because it was a stupid hunk of muscle with no respect for Stiles’ dignity. “Now I know. I just want to know what to expect.” 

Derek nodded sharply and turned to walk out of the kitchen. Stiles grabbed his t-shirt. “Take some water or a hot pocket or something,” said Stiles. “Makes it look like we came in here to make out instead of fight.” 

Derek took a bag of carrots out of the fridge.

*

Nine o’clock the next morning, it was absurdly easy to tell the LPs in their group from the HSs. Dark purple shadows haunted the eyes of the HSs, while the LPs’ only signs of strain were the tightness of their jaws and the sluggish blinks of their eyes.

A team of makeup artists descended on the family Hale, especially Laura. She struggled into a fresh suit of clothes while one of her aides went over the final draft of her speech. 

A man with formidably perfect eyebrows attacked Stiles with a pot of creamy foundation, spreading it under his eyes and patting it on the blemishes on his jaw. 

“Don’t cover his moles,” said Laura, and gave Stiles an encouraging smile. He tried to smile back, but it was difficult. 

In a matter of minutes, Stiles and Derek climbed into a car. Peter, Laura, and a few select aides piled into another. The crowd was already assembled in front of the Capitol in downtown BH. 

The cars slithered between bodies and recorders. Stiles stared out the tinted windows, watching the tense faces of reporters and enthusiastic citizens. As they neared the Capitol, Stiles spotted a small group of cits holding signs. ‘Justice’ said some of them. 

Laura mounted a podium on the Capitol steps. Peter and Derek flanked her. Stiles saw the aides spreading out, leaving the family as the focus for the recorders. Stiles stepped backwards, planning to take his place next to Tasha. Derek grabbed his elbow and held him firmly in place.

“Right here,” said Derek. Stiles stared at the reporters swarming below them. He stepped back into place on Derek’s right. 

“Don’t cross your arms,” Derek murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “If you have to fidget, put your hands in your pockets.” 

Stiles nodded. He felt Derek lean into him and looked up. He offered a thin smile. Stiles didn’t smile back. Instead, he slipped his hand into Derek’s pocket. The tips of their fingers tangled. Derek’s eyebrows lifted, but then he shifted their hands, wrapping them together more securely. 

Grey morning light glared and winked on recorder lenses, when, at last, Laura began to speak. Stiles barely listened to the words. He’d heard every draft of the speech, rambled aloud by anxious writers and overworked aides. He could quote off the top of his head the sections about the ongoing investigation, the Governor’s deepest sympathies for the families of Oregon, and the announcement of an upcoming summit with US policymakers to discuss the future of federal hate crime legislation. 

When it was over, the reporters burst into questions. 

“Who’s responsible?” 

“The FBI and Oregon authorities have only just recently gained access to the scene,” said Laura. “I’ll direct all questions about the ongoing investigation to them.”

“But will there be a response from the Commonwealth?”

“Our main concern is securing the area and providing services for the grieving families,” said Laura. 

“With Quicksilver recently returned to CoPA, is there any evidence to suggest they were involved in last night’s attack?”

Laura paused for a moment, then picked up the plot and moved to the next question. 

Derek squeezed Stiles’ hand, fingernails digging between Stiles’ knuckles.

*

Hands reached and mouths shouted from every direction as Stiles and Derek were herded back towards the car. Peter and Laura walked in front of them.

“They’re here,” said Peter. 

“We’ll discuss it in the car,” said Laura. 

“Gerard rented a house on the beach, and where Gerard goes—”

“In the car.”

“If you’re just going to sit on your thumbs while that Argent bitch—”

“ _In the car_ ,” said Laura, and her voice seemed to swell, filling Stiles’ chest and making something quiver in his hindbrain. 

Stiles stared at Peter until Derek all but shoved him into the backseat of the sedan.

*

Derek stared out the window and frowned. Stiles stared at Derek. He stared silently as long as he could take it, but the questions burned on his tongue like coals.

“Who’s Gerard Argent?”

Derek didn’t look up from the window. “No one,” he said. 

“Why would Peter care about no one?”

“I don’t know,” said Derek. 

“Does this have something to do with the fire?”

Dere shifted on the seat, eyes flashing at Stiles and then away. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, except you obviously do. What the hell is—”

“I don’t know,” Derek snapped. “I don’t know anything, Stiles. I don’t fucking know.” 

Stiles closed his mouth. Derek looked back out the window. He remembered, suddenly, Derek telling Laura to shut her mouth on the subject of cancer. 

“Sorry,” said Stiles. Derek didn’t respond. His hands were still curled tight on his knees. “Really,” Stiles said. “You don’t have to talk about it.” 

“I don’t need your pity,” he sneered. 

“Oh, shut up,” said Stiles. “Look around you; look at your life. You think I pity you?” 

He looked away from Derek, out the window. He rubbed the warm leather seat beneath his hand. “That’s not what I feel.” 

He watched Derek’s reflection turn away again, but his fists were undone, fingers splayed on his thighs, empty. Stiles reached over and filled one. He laced their fingers together.

*

The car stopped in front of Stiles’ house. Stiles let go of Derek’s hand, but Derek curled his fingers tighter. Stiles looked at him.

“Laura likes you,” said Derek. 

Stiles didn’t say anything.

“You did well,” said Derek. 

“Compared to what?”

Derek frowned at him. “The fallout could be harsh. And you’re already hurt.”

Gently, Stiles pulled his hand away. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to run.”

“Good,” said Derek, obviously relieved, and Stiles tried to hold in his flinch. 

“Next moon, then,” said Derek. “We’ll finish it.” 

Stiles stared at his Throwback. Grey morning light was beginning to burn gold, sparking off the Jeep’s sharp edges. Stiles’ heart clenched in his chest. 

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “Sounds good.” 

He pulled the door handle and escaped before his heart burst.

*

He texted his dad to let him know he was home, and just as he was about to fall asleep, a new message popped up on the screen.

Victoria Argent: ‘Friday at nine. GPS on Thursday. Don’t be late.’

*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
>  
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien
> 
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
>  
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

There were three fights on Monday. One was in the parking lot between an LP and a sequenced HS—most people said VSHS, but who knew, really? The other two happened in the hallways, brief scuffles that ended in nothing. Stiles saw more flashed eyes in six hours than he had in the previous three months combined. Even Scott was affected, peering around them warily in the cafeteria. 

LP lacrosse practice was downright brutal. 

The cut on Scott’s forehead had long since healed by the time he walked off the field, but the blood spilled down the side of his face still looked tacky. 

“I’m gonna walk,” he told Stiles, and that was just fine. Stiles had something to do anyway.

*

Stiles crept down the stairs at the end of the lab hall. The deeper he went, the more strongly the air smelled of mildew. His feet left scratches of black on the dust coated tiles.

Extra desks lined the hallway, stacked one on top of the other until they resembled nothing so much as massive insects. Stiles expected glassy eyes to peek open at any second. 

He trailed a hand over the plaques beside the doors until he reached the biology storage room. Inside, the smell of must moldered beneath a topnote of formaldehyde. 

Stiles made a beeline for the cupboards in the back, eager to find what he’d come looking for and then get the hell out of there before the door locked and the desk-monsters ate him.

He rifled through one cupboard of plastic molecular models before he noticed the inventory lists on the insides of the cupboard doors. He opened them one by one until he found something useful: ‘Sexual Health Models’. 

Stiles grabbed the appropriate plastic tub and hefted it onto a nearby desk. 

“You never got back to me.” 

Stiles jumped and dropped the lid of the box. It smacked the floor and a cloud of dust drifted up. Stiles sneezed. 

Lydia raised an eyebrow and walked around him. She tugged on the edge of the plastic tub and peered into it. 

“What are you doing here?” Stiles demanded. 

Lydia reached into the tub and pulled out a strip of condoms. “Independent study.” She waved the condoms toward a cage in the opposite corner of the room. It was draped with a purple towel. A heat lamp glowed beside it. 

Stiles decided he didn’t need to know. 

“Right,” he said. “Independent...yeah. Okay. Look, I’m just gonna…” He backed away from the desk. 

“I’m mad at you,” said Lydia. She dropped the condoms on the desk and reached back into the tub. 

Stiles gulped. 

“You promised you'd come talk to me when he Marked you, but then you're on feed standing next to Laura Hale, and not so much as a text message.”

"I don't recall ever making that pact, actually."

"It was implied." She studied a poster illustrating a surgically implanted reproductive system. 

“Sure,” he said. “Well, sorry ‘bout that. I’ll, like, loop you in from now on, but I really think I—”

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Lydia set something heavy on the desk. It thunked solidly. 

They both stared at it. 

It was, unmistakably, a cock. A penis, really. The shaft was erect and uncut, made of rubber. Above the testicular sack, the ‘skin’ bulged slightly, the material spongier than on the rest of the model. 

Stiles opened his mouth but nothing came out. 

“Looking for sex toys?” said Lydia. 

“Researching,” Stiles snapped. 

“Uh-huh.” 

They both looked at the model. 

Primly, Lydia jammed the push at the base of the testicles. The model whirred softly, and then the spongy material above the balls began to, ever so gradually, inflate. 

Twenty seconds later, the model quieted. The knot was at its full girth. It was easily thicker than Stiles’ fist. 

“Oh god,” Stiles whimpered. His ass clenched. 

Lydia rolled her eyes. 

“Come on,” she said. She walked past him to the door. 

Stiles gave the model one long, last look before following her out.

*

Lydia’s bedroom smelled like coconut, orange, and flowers, just the way Stiles always thought it would. Stiles sat in the bay window, propped against a pile of embroidered pillows and carefully not touching anything. Lydia lay stomach-down on her bed, her tablet set in front of her.

She scrolled through the inventory of adamandsteve.com. A crease formed between her eyebrows as she read product descriptions for dildos and fuck machines. Stiles pinched himself again, just to make sure this wasn’t some kind of stress-induced nightmare or possibly a Hell dimension.

He looked out the window at his Throwback and longed for its stale corn chip stink.

It was just fucking, he thought. It was. Tons of kids at school had already crossed this bridge. 

But Stiles’ birthday was soon, which meant his dad didn’t have to sign anything to give Derek...permission (Stiles shuddered). That was good. But it also meant he was in this on his own. It was all his decision, a one-hundred percent Stiles-only problem. 

Except it wasn’t anymore, and though he desperately wanted to throw himself from Lydia’s window and into manicured shrubberies below, he also didn’t. Stiles on his own ended up in the basement of Hale Prep looking at dusty, inflatable plastic dicks. 

And maybe he’d sort of fantasized about Lydia’s bedroom for a few years. 

“How did your Introduction go?”

“Okay,” said Stiles. “Except for, like, the bombs and stuff. Y’know.”

It was possibly the twelfth indirect question she’d asked about Laura Hale. Stiles was beginning to think this entire hellish exercise was because Lydia wanted an internship. But he much preferred the questions about Laura to her probing about Derek. 

"Does he even have a career?" 

"He's not a bum, Lydia. He works in advertising." 

"Really." 

"Yeah. I've seen his office. It's…" 

"It's?" 

“He really likes his team." 

“But not his work.”

“I don’t know, maybe?”

"Hm. Maybe he'll stay home with the kids." 

Stiles’ leg began to jump, foot tapping, arms jiggling where they rested on his knees.

Lydia pointed at her tablet. "This one."

Against his better judgment, Stiles leaned over her shoulder. The product she expanded was a specialty item. The gold star beside its title marked it a ‘Customer Favorite!’ In the picture, five butt plugs stood in a row like school children at a drinking fountain. A Coke can sat next to the largest—for scale, Stiles presumed. Beside the line-up stood a bottle of lube big enough to require a pump. For easy, one-handed dispensing, obviously. 

Stiles closed his eyes and tried not to inhale the warm scent of Lydia’s vanilla and orange blossom conditioner.

“That one?” His voice broke. 

“I don’t know,” said Lydia. “You tell me. Is it of adequate girth?” 

When he opened his eyes, Lydia smirked. 

Stiles took it all back. He was better off with the inflatable dick.

*

It arrived on the morning of his birthday. Stiles picked up the innocuous brown box from the porch and delivered it to the foot of his bed.

He ate the traditional blueberry pancake breakfast with his dad and didn’t think about dicks. 

He went to school and watched an LP girl break down in the middle of English because the little sister she’d never met had been gestating in Portland. He didn’t think about dicks. 

He sat at lunch and watched Scott glare at a sophomore who sidled up to Stiles and tried to wheedle information out of him, like just because he stood beside Laura Hale in a newsfeed, he was privy to the inner workings of the government. 

He didn’t look at the apple on his plate and think about knots, and when Lydia smiled at him knowingly, he took a bite out of the apple with a perfectly normal amount of enthusiasm. 

After school, he and Scott played video games until the sun set. When he paid the pizza delivery kid with credits from his dad’s account, he didn’t think about how absurd it was to be consummating a marriage of convenience a week after he’d paid for pizza with money his dad left on the counter. 

He was an adult now. He could think about dicks if he wanted to. 

When Stiles got back from taking Scott home, he stared at the steps leading upstairs.

*

Stiles ripped the box open. He spread the plugs out on the bed. They felt smooth and smelled like plastic. The smallest was the width of two fingers. The largest looked a lot like the Coke can it’d been placed beside in the picture. They were shaped like radishes. Stiles immediately repressed an unwelcome image of Peter Rabbit in a compromising position.

He washed them like the instructions said. He spent the next hour in a nest of blankets and sex toys, researching the proper preparation for coring oneself with a plug. The search results were pretty evenly split between porn instructionals and blog posts that waxed poetic about intimacy. Stiles chose porn. 

Every site he visited emphasized the importance of gradual stretching. Knotting, the sites said, could be done quick and dirty in a pinch—or if one preferred—but with an HS healing speed, slow and easy was better. 

Stiles privately wondered how one got used to being essentially fisted for half an hour, but the internet seemed to think he would. The internet seemed to think he would like it. 

His dad wouldn’t be home for hours. 

Stiles went to the bathroom, scrubbed himself inside and out. When he retreated to his room, he shut the blinds and put the lock on his door. 

Naked, he wiggled down until his butt rested on the bath towel he’d laid out to catch...drips. Or whatever. 

He leaned back on his pillows and let his muscles go lax. The cool sheets made his skin feel flushed. He ran a hand down his stomach and rubbed at the coarse hair above his waistband. He closed his eyes against the glare of his bedside lamp and summoned a fantasy: Lydia, red hair loose around her shoulders. She took Stiles’ hands and cupped them around her breasts. They were soft and heavy, nipples peaking under his fingertips. 

The pump turned out to be damn helpful, and Stiles took back every disparaging thought he’d had about it when he could reach to his side and get more lube while his other hand stripped his dick. 

When his breath started catching in his chest, he slowed down his hand and loosened his grip. His erection bumped against his stomach when he shifted his weight and opened his legs. With the hand coated in lubricant, he tucked his fingers beneath his balls and rubbed at his perineum. 

He’d done this part before. The fingering was nice. It felt normal and vaguely dirty to slip one, then two fingers into himself, pulling lightly on his hole and pushing back and forth until he felt slippery and pliant. 

He slimed the smallest plug with lube and pressed it in. With his other hand, he gently squeezed the head of his dick. 

It felt like his fingers, but it was easier to control. Where his fingers bent, the plug held firm. Stiles shuddered and breathed through his nose. He drew the plug out, angled it towards his belly button, and pressed in again. It brushed against his prostate, and Stiles’ lips parted. He pressed again and missed. 

Frustrated, Stiles dragged the plug out. He skipped the next two sizes and went for plug four. He slapped a palmful of lube across it and threw his legs open wider.

He twisted the plug in the way the websites had recommended, but it became clear that haste was not his friend. At a certain width, his butt simply stopped stretching, and pushing any further felt too much like something was about to rip.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles slid the plug completely out. He added an extra palmful of lubricant, then pushed the tip to his hole again. With soft, pulsing movements, he pushed the plug against his hole. It slipped inside, bit by bit. His elbow started to shake when he was near the widest part. He panted, mouth open. He stared down between his legs, though the only things he could see were his wrist and the softened line of his cock. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, and tossed his head back on the pillow. With one last push, he pressed the widest part of the plug inside. He let go, breathing heavily, knees parted wide. 

His ass ached, throbbing around the plug. He breathed until his exhales didn’t shake. 

Every time he imagined Lydia’s creamy white skin, his ass clenched around the plug, and the fantasy disintegrated. 

He rubbed his cock against his stomach. 

When the ache had subsided to mere fullness, he reached between his legs and touched his fingers to the stem extending outside his hole. He tapped it, and the vibrations shivered inside of him.

Stiles laid three fingers against the stem and pulsed his hand against the plug. He gasped. With fingers wrapped around the stem, he twisted, and bit down on his lip. His prostate flared.

He grabbed his cock in one hand and began to stroke. With his other hand, he pulsed against the plug. If that was what it felt like to be fucked, then Stiles was all for it. He’d imagined that before, when he was just using fingers. He’d imagined boys from the locker room and Lydia with a strap-on. More often, though, he imagined them on their stomachs, and how soft they’d be inside. Stiles wondered how soft he was inside. 

Did Derek think about that?

Stiles hissed and increased the pace of his pulses. His hips pushed into the air, fucking his cock through the tight hole of his fingers. 

His cell phone rang. 

“Oh, fuck off,” he gasped, eyes popping open. 

The phone buzzed with a text message. 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and tried to maintain his rhythm. 

The phone rang again. 

Stiles whined and let go of his cock. He groped towards his bedside table, knocking the picture of him and Scott on the floor before closing his fingers on the phone. He whipped it in front of his face. 

Stiles’ eyes widened when he saw Derek’s name, and then the phone rang again, buzzing in his lube-slick hand. Stiles hit the accept button.

“This better be a national fucking emergency,” said Stiles. 

“You didn’t say anything about a birthday.”

Stiles considered hanging up, but instead he lay there, one hand on the butt plug, and one hand holding the phone to his ear. 

“So what you’re saying is no, it’s not an emergency.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

"How didn't you know? Didn't you do any research as my stalker? I'm crushed."

“Can I come over?" It didn’t sound like a request. 

Stiles looked down at his hand between his legs. “Well.”

"I'm in the car." Derek hung up. 

Stiles dropped the cell phone. He ignored the shiny, smeary fingerprints left on its edges. He looked around himself, at the demolished cardboard box, the puddles of lube, and the butt plugs scattered in his bedding like perverse rubber eggs he was hoping to hatch. 

‘In the car’ could mean anything from walking down the driveway to three minutes away from Stiles’ house. 

Stiles flailed to his feet, and when the plug in his ass made him twinge, his feet tangled in the bedspread. Tipping, he grabbed for the bedside table, hoping to avoid a head injury and the possibility of somebody finding him with a towel lube-glued to his plugged ass. In the process, the knocked the lamp off the table and landed on the picture of him and Scott. The frame snapped under his hip. The lamp’s plug ripped out of the wall, and the room plunged into darkness. 

Stiles kicked himself free of the towel, sheets, and bedspread, and waddled across his room. He flipped on the overhead light and surveyed the disaster. He calculated the probability of Derek seeing his bedroom. He reasoned that if television had taught him anything, it was that the odds of any single humiliating occurrence coming to pass dramatically increased if there were butts involved. 

Stiles ripped the sodden towel out of the pile of bedding, balled it up, and tossed it into his hamper. He shook out his comforter and sheets, and the plugs fell out with heavy thumps. Once collected, he shoved them back into their cardboard box, along with the monster bottle of lube. 

He was sliding the box beneath his bed when he heard someone knock on the front door. Stiles paused, head and shoulders beneath his comforter, his legs spread awkwardly to accommodate the plug still pushed inside him. 

He wiggled backwards on his knees. He ripped his dresser drawers open, and grabbed boxers and a t-shirt. Stumbling out his door, he shoved his limbs into the clothing. 

He heard the door open downstairs and cursed himself for leaving it unlocked, then cursed his father for giving Derek blanket permission to visit when he wanted. He wished they still hated each other. 

“Stiles?” said Derek. 

Stiles made a strangled sound because he knew Derek would hear him. He bustled into the bathroom, twisted the taps on, and pumped three times on the soap bottle. 

The suds wrapped him from fingers to elbows. He scrubbed, swirling white in his arm hair. He rinsed in warm water and prayed that the scent of the soap would cover the scent of precome and lube. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” said Stiles. He twisted the taps closed. He grabbed a towel and walked with it towards the stairs. 

Derek looked up at him from the foot of the staircase. Stiles rubbed at his arms with the towel, leaving them pink. 

“Breaking and entering these days?” said Stiles. 

He rushed down the first two steps and froze on the third, trying to contain his wince. Stiles tightened around the plug. The only thing he could imagine that was more embarrassing than waddling the rest of the way down was the plug falling out of his ass and ricocheting off the stairs like a superball. 

Stiles descended the staircase like a pageant girl. Derek didn’t comment, but when he reached the bottom, he pressed something into Stiles’ chest. 

It was plastic, about the size of the book, and when Stiles closed his hands around it, he realized it was a piece of cake, the kind you bought at the supermarket. The white frosting looked grainy in the yellow overhead light.

"Here,” said Derek. 

"Th-thanks." Stiles clenched his fingers around the plastic, making it creak. 

Derek’s scowl didn’t shift. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"How did you even find out?"

"My assistant asked what I got you."

"Oh,” said Stiles. “Well, I like cake." 

Derek stared. "I wish you'd told me,” he said, finally. He stepped away. 

"Next time, I will,” said Stiles. “So, you know...sorry?" 

Derek stuffed his hands in his pockets. 

Stiles swallowed and tried to control his heart rate. He opened the plastic container. The scent of processed sugar and artificial flavoring rolled over him. He stuck a finger in the icing. 

“You got a fork?” 

Derek walked into the kitchen, opened the silverware drawer, and delivered Stiles a fork. 

Stiles fingered the handle. He poked holes in the swirl of icing at the top of the slice, then dragged his fork down the center like a rake in a rock garden. 

Derek stared. Maybe he expected Stiles to eat it. That could be a LP thing, Stiles thought. Delivering his mate sustenance. Or whatever. 

"Look,” he said, letting his arm hang at his side, fork smearing frosting on his boxers, “you wanna watch a movie or something?” He gestured toward the living room with the slice of cake. “My dad's got the late shift again, so I'm sorta here all by myself. Which, y'know…birthday." 

It was a brilliant plan. If he got Derek involved in the movie, he could escape to the bathroom and take out the goddamn plug. He’d come back a little loose, but much less likely to pull a muscle while eating a slice of red velvet. 

Derek didn’t answer him with words, which shocked Stiles down to his very core, truly. He stalked to the couch and took a seat. Stiles followed, walking slowly. 

He bit down on his tongue while he folded onto the couch. When he settled into the cushions, trying to ignore the sting in his ass, he noticed Derek watching him with a bemused stare. 

“Go on,” said Stiles, waving his fork towards the controller sitting beside Derek’s hand. 

They queued up the Stilinski movie collection and decided on a Batman incarnation. 

Stiles ate his cake. He watched the screen intently, hoping to set a good example, but Derek kept sliding glances his way. Once, when Stiles leaned forward to set his cake on the coffee table, he swore he saw Derek lean in to him and take a delicate little sniff. 

He pretended he hadn’t noticed, and they continued to watch the movie in silence. 

The plug hurt, and Stiles rearranged himself, sliding to one side in an attempt to take pressure off his ass. When Derek eyed him, Stiles pretended to be snuggling closer. Derek shifted obligingly, letting Stiles rest most of his weight on Derek’s ribs. 

Every time Stiles considered getting up from the couch, he’d flex his arms, lean forward, and the plug would shift. He bit down on his hisses and whimpers, but the sharp breaths he couldn’t stop, and Derek’s eyebrows crept closer and closer together.

Catwoman flipped down from a ledge and struck a pose, legs splayed and breasts bouncing. Stiles felt a twitch of arousal in his stomach, and then an echoing throb in his ass. He shifted. The plug pushed against his prostate, and before he could swallow it, he moaned. 

Derek stared. 

“Stiles,” he said. 

“Hm?” Stiles squeaked. 

“What were you doing before I got here?” Derek’s hand curled around one of Stiles’ wrists. 

“What do you think I was doing?”

“Why do you smell like you bathed in lubricant?”

“Why do you think I smell like—”

“Stiles.” 

Stiles closed his eyes and felt the blood rush to his face. Derek tugged gently on his wrist, and Stiles leaned obediently.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered. Stiles opened his eyes. “Come here,” said Derek, and pulled again. 

Stiles didn’t quite understand, but Derek’s eyes were dark, pupils like oceans. When he tugged on Stiles’ wrist, Stiles sat up on his knees and straddled Derek’s thighs. 

The new angle meant Stiles had to bite his tongue again, twisting his neck to ride out the shocks of pleasure and the burn of raw, overworked flesh. Derek’s hands settled on his waist, fingers splayed over his sides like a warm cage. Stiles listened to the rush of ragged breaths and realized they were Derek’s. 

“It’s a plug,” Stiles blurted. Derek’s eyes shot up to his, eyebrows lifting. “It’s...fuck, it’s a fucking plug. I was…and then you called, and I...oh, fucking god.” Stiles covered his face. 

Derek’s breathing grew harsher. One of his warm hands slipped down from Stiles’ waist. He tucked his fingers under Stiles’ shirt and rubbed against the small of his back. 

Stiles opened his eyes, and Derek met his gaze. He stared up at him, unblinking. The movie flashed desaturated colors in his pupils. 

His fingers crept under Stiles’ boxers and pressed into the cleft of his ass. He followed the curve of it, dragging his palm down to cup the cheek. His fingers found the hard stem emerging from Stiles’ hole. He pressed gently. 

Stiles arched his back. 

“Fuck,” said Derek, the word yanked out of him.

"Yeah," Stiles breathed. "Yeah, that was sort of the plan. The reason. For the plan. Next moon. And I…” Derek pushed gently again, and Stiles twitched. “I needed to be…prepped…maybe…."

"Yes,” said Derek. “It’s easier if you...I should've said, when I asked, but I...I should've…”

Stiles rocked back on Derek’s hand. 

“I can't fucking think right now,” said Derek.

Stiles peered down at him through slitted eyes. "Yeah?"

Derek surged up and kissed him, mouth already open like he was going to swallow Stiles whole. It was sloppy and wet, but Stiles opened his lips and leaned in. When Derek’s tongue pushed into his mouth in time with a push on the plug, Stiles groaned and grabbed at Derek’s shoulders. 

Derek leaned back and kissed Stiles’ jaw. He nipped beneath his chin. 

“We should move,” said Stiles. Derek’s hands tightened, pulling him closer.

“Like you right here.”

“My dad naps on this couch, dude.”

Derek leaned into his collarbones. Stiles tucked his chin against Derek’s hair. Their chests pushed together as they breathed. 

“Upstairs,” said Derek. 

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “My bed.”

Derek didn’t look inclined to move.

“Wanna see you come in my bed,” said Stiles. 

Derek grabbed Stiles’ ass with both hands and lurched up from the couch. Stiles yelped. On instinct, he wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck and his legs around his hips. They were halfway up the staircase before Stiles started wiggling out of Derek’s hands. 

“Oh, fuck no,” he said. “Fuck you. I am not being carried.”

“You wanna climb stairs right now?” 

“Put me down, asshole.” 

Derek put him down at the top of the staircase. Stiles glared. 

“You want me to take you back down?” 

Stiles turned on his heel and waddled down the hallway. Derek hovered behind him like a shadow. His hands brushed against Stiles’ hips as they paused to open his bedroom door. 

“Come here with birthday cake,” Stiles muttered, fumbling with the knob. “Faker.” 

“Wasn’t,” said Derek. He tucked his nose behind Stiles’ ear. 

Stiles turned the knob and they fell forward. Derek slammed the door behind them. Stiles turned to face him, and met Derek’s glowing eyes. Blue eyes, shining like LEDs. 

“Oh,” said Stiles. He glanced at Derek’s hands, but they looked like human hands. 

Abruptly, Derek’s eyes cut out. The room turned black. Stiles waited for his eyes to adjust, and felt Derek’s hands bunch in his shirt. 

“Where’d the headlights go?” said Stiles. 

“You didn’t like it,” said Derek. He tugged at Stiles’ shirt, and Stiles lifted his arms. 

“Just surprised.” 

“It’s fine,” said Derek. He ran his hands over Stiles’ shoulder blades. 

“Okay,” said Stiles. “But I don’t mind.” 

“Okay,” Derek agreed, and kissed him. 

They shuffled to the bed, and Stiles fell back on it. Derek kneeled on the edge and crawled up the mattress. 

“You come before I get here?” said Derek. 

“No.”

“Smells like you did.” 

“Almost,” said Stiles.

“Smells good,” said Derek. 

Stiles bit his lip, but Derek tugged it back, sucking it into his mouth. Stiles pushed his hands under Derek’s shirt. He carved Derek’s muscles with his fingertips.

Derek lapped down his chest and sucked a nipple into his mouth. He lathed it with his tongue and worried at it with his teeth. It stung, and when Derek pulled away, the air was cold. It made Stiles writhe.

He pushed up against Derek, and Derek rolled down, grinding his erection into Stiles’ hip. Stiles grabbed at Derek’s ass, squeezing the firm flesh and pulling him closer. Derek rutted against his thigh. 

Stiles felt like a lighthouse, lit. Powerful. He made Derek like this, he thought, all sloppy mouth and humping hips. Stiles did that. 

“What do you want to do?” said Derek urgently, whispering to Stiles’ neck. 

“What?”

“What do you—do you want to come?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to come?” 

“Yeah.”

“You want me to fuck you?” 

“I—” Stiles swallowed and clutched at Derek’s back. 

He imagined it: the hot line along his thigh pressing into him instead. It probably wouldn’t hurt. The plug had done all the hard work. He’d be sore tomorrow either way. 

He thought about how hot Derek’s skin would be, burning inside him, filling him up. He felt arousal twist in his stomach, but along with it was a twist of anxiety. Derek’s weight pressed him into the bed, making his breaths short. Derek’s hands on his waist felt like brands. His mouth stole Stiles’ entire attention. The cuts and bruises from his attack still pinged when Derek's hands stroked wrong, but somehow it just made Stiles want more, want harder. The thought of Derek inside him felt consuming, like being owned. 

“No,” he said. “No, I—”

“Can I suck you off?” If Derek was disappointed, he didn’t sound like it. Just desperate. “I can’t—fingering—right now, but you could—my thighs. I like that. It’s good. You—

“Oh, fucking blow me, Derek, before I come in my pants.”

Derek nipped him hard on the chin, and Stiles barked a laugh. 

Derek palmed Stiles through his boxers and licked at the hollow of his throat. He kissed each of Stiles’ nipples. He tongued Stiles’ navel and rubbed his cheek against Stiles’ happy trail as his fingers worked at his fly. Stiles panted and tried not to thrust at Derek’s face as he worked down Stiles’ body.

He peeled Stiles’ boxers and down to his knees and promptly shoved his face into Stiles’ groin, snuffling at the base of his cock. He breathed deep, mouth slightly open like he was tasting the air. Stiles gasped and laughed at the same time, hands threading through Derek’s hair. 

“Down boy,” said Stiles. Derek tugged on his happy trail in retaliation, but the sting helped Stiles concentrate on not coming when Derek’s lips tickled his balls. 

Derek sat up and yanked at Stiles’ boxers. Stiles kicked, helping Derek shuck them off and toss them to the floor. Derek dove back down on him, hands tucking under Stiles’ thighs. He tilted his legs into bending. Stiles lifted his hips and Derek curled his arms under him, holding him up and open. 

Stiles felt Derek’s breath on the raw, stretched rim of his hole. Seconds later, Derek licked him. Stiles moaned, and Derek licked him again, tracing his swollen rim with the tip of his tongue. 

Stiles shifted against the sheets, sliding in Derek’s arms. His cock bumped against Derek’s forehead, which would have made him laugh, except he was hard enough for it to make him throb. He tightened around the plug, mashing his prostate. Stiles scrambled for a handhold in the sheets.

“Not gonna…” he gasped. 

Derek licked a stripe up the underside of Stiles’ swollen cock. He slid one hand from beneath Stiles’ hips. Wrapping his fingers around the base of Stiles’ cock, he held it steady and lapped, tongue soft and flat. 

He licked until Stiles’ dick dripped. The wet skin froze in the air, then warmed with further lashings from Derek’s tongue. Stiles whimpered, twisting under Derek’s hands. Derek slid the head of Stiles’ cock into the soft, encompassing heat of his mouth. 

Stiles arched off the bed, and Derek let him, swallowing as Stiles thrust into his mouth. When he hit the back of his throat, Derek gagged and pinned Stiles to the bed. 

Stiles felt like a sprinter, copper tang in his mouth. He tightened his fingers in Derek’s hair and looked down, watching him bob on his cock with single-minded focus. 

The sounds alone made Stiles tight inside. Derek’s eyes were closed, his lips taut, slurping and suckling like his purpose in life was to take Stiles’ come. Spit and precome slicked his chin. His stubble scratched sensitive skin, but Stiles couldn’t imagine anything as hot and soft as Derek’s mouth without the contrasting burn of his beard.

“Derek,” said Stiles. He tugged on his hair. “Derek, gonna…”

Derek sped up. His lips slipped back and forth over the crown of Stiles’ cock. Stiles panted, mouth open. For the first time, Derek looked up at him, mouth full. His gaze was hooded and content, eyes lambent, glowing blue as an electric sky. Stiles came. 

He pumped into Derek’s mouth, his spine ripping out through his cock, eyes squeezed closed. 

When he opened his eyes again, Derek was licking the last of Stiles’ come from the base of his cock. His face was already slick. 

“Christ,” said Stiles. 

Derek sat up and kneeled over him. He fumbled with his jeans, ripping at the button and pulling the fly open. He dug out his cock and balls. His erection arched toward his body. His jeans were stained with precome. 

“You want me…?” said Stiles, though his limbs felt limp as seaweed. 

Derek slid a hand beneath Stiles’ hip and guided him onto his stomach. Stiles spread his legs. 

Derek groped at his ass, grabbing a handful of flesh and squeezing. His other hand flew over his cock, no finesse, intent on coming. 

Stiles stared over his shoulder, watching. Derek pushed his ass apart with one hand, and stared down at the plug.

“You really like that,” said Stiles softly. 

“Looks…” Derek swallowed hard. “Feels like you...want my knot.”

Stiles watched Derek’s face—the worshipful focus in his gaze, the pliant gape of his mouth. “I want it,” said Stiles, experimenting. 

Derek’s fingers tightened on his ass cheek. 

“Yeah,” said Stiles, emboldened. “Want your cock,” he whispered. 

Derek’s hips thrust into his hand. 

“Wanna take your knot,” said Stiles. “Wanna be tied. Gonna give me what I want, Derek? Want you— _fuck_.” Derek shoved at the plug, and Stiles bucked. 

Derek groaned. Hot spurts striped Stiles’ hole, dripping down to wet his balls. It clung to the plug like candle wax.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped. 

Derek slid closer, thighs pressing thighs. His hand still held Stiles open while the other milked his erection, squeezing every drop of come onto Stiles’ skin. 

Stiles watched Derek come down, shuddering, and let go of his wilting dick. Near the base, the skin still looked red and fat. 

When Derek’s breathing returned to normal, he touched fingertips to the plug. “You want this out?” 

Stiles nodded. Gently, Derek twisted and pulled. Stiles hissed through his teeth at the stretch, but nothing felt damaged when it popped out. Derek set it on the bedside table. 

He pressed his thumb against Stiles’ hole, rubbing a streak of come into the skin. 

“My eyes are up here,” said Stiles. He pillowed his head on his folded arms. Derek looked up. 

He leaned over Stiles’ back and kissed him. It was mostly lip, their tongues touching briefly before Derek pulled away. 

“I’m gonna clean you up,” said Derek. 

Stiles hummed his acquiescence, eyelids already drooping. Derek was still a warm, heavy presence hovering over his back when he fell asleep.

*

Stiles opened his eyes and saw Derek lying next to him. He propped up on his elbow and looked at the clock on his bedside table. He’d been asleep for a little under two hours. His dad would be home soon.

Derek touched his chin, and Stiles looked down. 

“Your eyes are out,” said Stiles.

“They’re tiring by themselves.” 

Stiles leaned back into his pillows, pulling the comforter up to his chest. “I’ve never seen blue.” 

“There aren’t many,” said Derek. 

“Programming?”

“Something like that.” 

Stiles frowned. “You’re not going to tell me.”

Derek turned onto his stomach.

Stiles turned his face into the pillow and didn’t say anything. 

A few moments later, Derek spoke, voice brittle. “I killed someone,” said Derek, “with the Bite.” 

Stiles’ grip tightened on the comforter. 

“Sometimes when that happens, programming marks the failure.” 

Stiles watched Derek’s face, but his night vision wasn’t sensitive enough. Derek was nothing but deep shadows and sharp edges. “Did you love them?” said Stiles. 

He shrugged. “I was a kid.” 

“How old?”

“Sixteen.” 

Stiles didn’t say anything to that. Sixteen didn’t seem that young to him, and maybe that was a problem. He turned over under the comforter and rested his chin on his folded arms. He watched Derek. 

“That was before the fire,” said Stiles. 

Derek nodded. 

The questions sat on Stiles’ tongue. Questions about the Argents and about Quicksilver, but Derek wouldn’t tell him, and he didn’t want to ruin this...whatever it was. Moment. 

“You’re so obsessed with my ass,” said Stiles. 

Derek snorted, and Stiles grinned. 

“You’re the one who bought a butt plug.”

“Uh, yeah. Excuse me, Claimer, but Claimee here is expecting to have something significantly larger than a few fingers shoved up my ass in the near future. I thought maybe it’d be a good idea to check out the props before opening night.” 

Derek’s grin gleamed, even in the low light shattered by Stiles’ blinds. 

“Something tells me you will be spectacularly unhelpful all moon-crazy and shifted.” 

“True,” said Derek. He reached out for Stiles and wrapped an arm around his waist. He tugged him across the sheets until their bodies brushed. He nosed at Stiles’ jaw. “I’ll want inside you so bad, I’ll tear you up to get there.” 

“Was that supposed to be romantic?” said Stiles. “Because that definitely fell on the threatening side of romantic, FYI. Bodily harm is not sexy. Well, okay, sometimes, but when we’re talking about potential anal fissures, definitely unsexy. Also, rectal prolapse? It’s a thing. There are pictures on the internet, Derek. They haunt me.” 

Derek pressed their lips together. It wasn’t even a kiss, just a press. Stiles sighed against his mouth. He separated their lips and tilted his head down, brushing their noses together. 

They lay like that for another few minutes before Stiles began to twitch. 

“My dad will be home soon,” he said. 

“I’ll go,” said Derek. 

“Yeah,” said Stiles. 

“When you go to sleep, I’ll go.”

“Okay,” said Stiles. 

He turned his cheek into the pillow. Derek’s arm stayed curled around him. Stiles closed his eyes, but he could feel Derek watching him. 

When he woke again, the sun had risen. Derek was gone.

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
>  
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien
> 
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
>  
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

Nine o’clock Friday found Stiles in the Preserve, waiting at the appointed coordinates for his Argent escort. Chris appeared out of the woods on a four wheeler and told him to hang on. 

The scent of sap filled the air as they broke boughs and crushed underbrush. Stiles tried to find the least sexual way possible to cling to Allison’s father, eventually giving up and grabbing on to Chris’ waist, scrunching his hands in his jacket. 

Every time their four wheeler hit a bump in the path, pain jolted through Stiles’ ass. He may or may not have gotten off a half dozen times in the last few days using those butt plugs. Whatever, he bought ‘em, and he was gonna get his money’s worth. And if every time he came with something big and wide shoved up his ass he thought of Derek’s hot spunk dripping down his back, then that was just good mental preparation for the ordeals to come. 

A few miles deep in the woods, they pulled up next to another four wheeler. Victoria Argent stood beside it with a couple of strangers dressed for cold weather. She looked strangely soft in her jacket and jeans, but when she turned her eyes on Stiles, her glare had well-sharpened edges.

The strangers ignored Chris’ arrival. One of them walked up to Victoria with a bulky electronic controller. It looked like a ham radio with too many buttons. 

“All set,” said the stranger, an Asian woman, mid-forties. She glanced at Stiles, looked him up and down, then sniffed and looked away. 

Well.

“So, like, will it beep if there’s stuff?” said Stiles. 

“Yeah,” said Chris. 

“So we’re waiting,” said Stiles. 

“Yeah,” he said again, smiling. He was a chipper maniac, Chris Argent. 

The Argents settled on their four wheelers. Stiles settled against the trunk of a tree. 

Two minutes later, he sighed, and sank to the ground. 

Five minutes later, he picked up a stick and began beating it against the ground. The other stranger, a white guy with greying hair, shot him a look like he was contemplating how best to dispose of Stiles’ body. Stiles chose digging as a less noisy, and potentially life-threatening, pastime. 

Twenty minutes later, Stiles couldn’t help himself. “You guys ever catch anybody?” 

Nobody looked at him, and no one spoke. 

Eventually, after a full minute of silence, Chris looked at him. “Female omega last month,” said Chris. 

“What’d you do with her?” 

The strangers stared at him then. 

“Waited ‘til morning and let her go,” said Chris. He frowned. “We’re not the monsters, here, Stiles.” 

“I’m running the border,” said Victoria. She and the Asian woman climbed aboard a four wheeler. “I’ll check three and five.”

Chris nodded, and the women left.

*

The moon slipped too low in the sky to be seen through the canopy of the forest. The underbrush rustled, and an owl called. From the direction of town, the familiar Moonday howls echoed like distant sirens.

The trap remote lay beside Chris on the seat of the four wheeler. Two hours after the beginning of their watch, one of its light lit up and flashed orange. 

“Hey,” said Stiles, gesturing at the remote with his stick. 

The old guy stood up and Chris picked up the sensor. He flicked a switch and a radar screen appeared. Chris’ eyes widened. 

“Get on,” said Chris. He mounted the four wheeler while the stranger flung himself into the seat of the last machine. 

“What is it?” said Stiles. 

“Get on!” The machine roared to life. 

Stiles leapt from the ground, heart leaping with him. He wrapped himself around Chris’ back as the man revved the engine. The old guy was already gone, shooting through the trees with a crash. Chris turned them in the opposite direction and gunned it. 

With the remote clipped to the handlebars, and Stiles’ cheek smashed against Chris’ shoulder, it was easy enough for him to watch the vague white blip slide around the radar screen. Stiles didn’t know which part of the screen meant which part of the forest, though he assumed the orange dotted lines demarcated traps. 

That’s when he heard the howl. 

Howls were common on Moonday nights. The night was always thick with a chorus of them, and Stiles was used to them, even liked them. Lying in his bed as a kid, his mother’s song would lull him to sleep. 

This howl was not a lullaby. More like a death metal chorus. 

Chris swore and twisted the throttle. They tore down the path, ripping through ferns and branches. 

Stiles heard another howl, this time much, much louder. He turned his face, just enough to look behind them. 

Through the gaps in the trees, he saw the shape of a monster. Easily ten feet tall, it careened through the Preserve. Strips of bark rained down around it. It had four feet, a snout, and black fur that reflected the dappled moonlight, but Stiles would not call it a wolf. It was something else, the twisted child of a gorilla and a jungle cat. 

Chris whipped the four wheeler into a turn, lurching them off the path. Behind them, the thing howled again. It made Stiles’ ribs vibrate. 

“What the hell is that?”

“An Alpha,” said Chris. 

Good news, Stiles thought. They’d found the rogue. 

Chris swung them into another turn and re-emerged from the trees on a bark dust path. The Alpha followed, spraying wood chips in the underbrush. 

“Duck,” said Chris. Stiles pressed his forehead between Chris’ shoulders. 

Stiles barely saw the glint of something metallic in the trees before he and Chris sped beneath a cable. The Alpha followed. 

The trap engaged with a sound like a car crash. Stiles heard cables snap, crunch, snap. He twinged when the Alpha howled. Chris spun them around, the four wheeler tipping on its tires before crashing down. 

Suspended above the path, the Alpha hung, trussed from neck to haunches with thick, metal cables. Chris mashed a push on the remote, and the Alpha jerked. Stiles heard a crackle and saw a spark blaze and die in the Alpha’s fur.

It stilled and hung limp in its electrified sling. Scarlet eyes smoldered in the darkness. 

Chris took the walkie from his belt and told the others they’d caught an Alpha. 

“It was fixated,” said Chris, and Stiles felt his stare. He ignored it. He was busy watching the Alpha twist in the bonds, gently swinging himself around, and always, always, keeping his eyes on Stiles.

*

Eventually, Stiles fell asleep, nested in the roots of a nearby tree, covered by an extra jacket from a four wheeler’s saddle bag. When he woke, the light was pre-dawn gray. The trap’s cables lay limp from the trees. Sitting cross-legged in the circle of mountain ash was Peter Hale. He watched Stiles sit up.

“Good morning,” said Peter. 

Stiles felt his stomach turn. 

Mrs. Argent stepped in front of Stiles. “Mr. Hale,” she said. 

“Victoria,” said Peter. His smile showed all his teeth. “You’ve aged well.” 

“Any reason we shouldn’t gift wrap you for the Sheriff?” said Chris. 

“The Sheriff?” Peter scoffed. “Have I committed a crime?” 

“Stop playing coy,” spit one of the Argent henchmen, the man with the grey streaks in his hair. “You’re a fucking murderer.” 

Peter laughed. 

Images filled Stiles’ mind. Dark bruises on Scott’s uneven jaw. A limp body in the shape of a question mark. 

“Please,” said Peter. “Call the Sheriff. Call the feds. I’ll call NBCNN. We’ll see what makes a bigger splash: four bigots call the Governor’s uncle a monster and tie him up in the woods, or definitive evidence shows that Quicksilver is using your donations to fund hate crime?” 

“How ‘bout a bullet through your head?” said the woman beside Mrs. Argent, calm, collected, and reaching for her side-holster. “Think that’d change the story, you smarmy fuck?” 

Chris put a hand on the woman’s elbow. Peter smirked. 

Stiles understood their mistake: they’d expected to find a rabid dog, and instead they’d found a predator. 

“What do you think, Stiles?” Peter turned his smirk his way. “Whose story do you think Derek will believe?”

“Rot in a hole,” said Stiles. 

“My, my, look at those teeth,” he said. “You know, I was wrong about you. You’ll be something to see when Derek’s through. One way or another.”

“If you turn him, I will kill you,” said Mrs. Argent. Her voice was perfectly level, and so was her glare. She and Peter met eyes for a long moment. Peter was the one to look away. 

Peter stood up, unabashed about his nudity. “It’s been a pleasure,” he said. 

Peter tilted his head back and howled—long and piercingly loud. A pack call. Stiles sometimes heard them on Moondays, and sometimes at the mall when parents lost their children. 

Chris swore. He hauled Stiles to his feet. 

The grey-haired man lunged for the cables, but Mrs. Argent ordered him onto a four wheeler. Stiles mounted up behind Chris, and they sped into the underbrush. He felt Peter’s eyes on his back until they disappeared into the trees.

*

Stiles drove home in a daze. Pine needles clung to his hair, and his eyes felt heavy, but he couldn’t talk himself up the staircase to his room. Instead, he went to the kitchen and filled the sink with soapy water. He took the dishes out of the dishwasher and started to scrub.

When the last cereal bowl had been dried and put away, he’d come to a decision. 

Scott deserved to know. 

Derek deserved to know. 

His father deserved to know, too, but Stiles wouldn’t tell him until he had evidence. Better evidence. Something his father could work with. 

Stiles looked at the staircase again. 

He dug his cellphone out of his pocket and texted Derek. 

Stiles: ‘I’m coming over.’

*

Derek leaned against the doorframe, blocking Stiles’ view of the inside, and Stiles felt his stomach touch his toes.

“Peter was here,” said Stiles. 

Derek’s nostrils flared. His mouth was a thin line, and when he spoke, it seemed to crack instead of open. “I wish you’d wait for an answer before you just show up here.” 

Stiles closed his eyes. He fought against the whip crack instinct to defend himself. He swallowed against the bile rising preemptively in his throat. “He’s lying to you,” said Stiles. 

“You don’t know what he said.”

“Are we doing this in the hallway?” Stiles snapped. 

“How long have you been working with the Argents?” 

Stiles stared at him, but Derek looked past him, looked over his shoulder. 

“Don’t you want your finger on my pulse while I answer?”

“Just answer.” 

“I’m not, ‘working with them,’” said Stiles. 

“Really.”

Stiles scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s the rogue, Derek. He’s killed people. He Bit Scott.”

“Was that why you agreed for next moon? Why you’re suddenly so desperate? Why you—” The doorway moaned, tortured in Derek’s grasp. “Were you passing them information?”

Stiles slammed his hand against the doorframe, leaning into Derek’s face. “About what? Your horrible taste in movies? The dimensions of your dick?” 

Derek’s eyes flared, and Stiles took a step back. 

“Did you know about the traps?” 

Stiles licked his lips. 

“Did you _know_ about the traps?”

“Yes.” 

Derek’s lip curled. 

“I had to know,” said Stiles. He ignored the lump in his throat and reclaimed the space between Derek and himself. Derek leaned away from him. “I had to. Nobody got hurt. It was the only way to find the rogue, and we found him. He’s doing something, Derek. Somehow, he’s stealing the powers from Laura. I think it has to do with the default programming, and I can prove it if—”

The door slammed shut. 

Stiles stared at it. 

“Derek?” 

The door stayed shut. 

“Please open the door.” 

No response. 

“This is real fucking mature, Derek.”

He heard the shower turn on. 

Stiles raised his fist, clenched it, opened it. He smoothed it over the door handle. He pressed his cheek against the door. 

The mass in his throat rose into his mouth. His heart swelled to crowd his lungs. 

“Derek, please.” 

Five minutes later, a security guard appeared at the end of the hallway. She escorted Stiles to his car.

*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
>  
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien
> 
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
>  
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho.

Scott stared at his hands. He didn’t look at Stiles—across from him—or Allison—hovering beside him. 

Allison put a hand on his arm, and Scott flinched. He stumbled to his feet. Stiles stood up, too, leaning across the table with a hand extended. Scott shook his head. He lifted a hand, waving them both off. 

“I just...y’know, I need…” He shook his head again and walked away, through the double doors, into the parking lot beyond. 

Stiles and Allison sank back into their seats. 

“I knew I should have lied,” said Stiles. 

“No,” said Allison. Stiles looked at her, absurdly hopeful, like somehow Allison could make this right.

“If it were me,” she said, staring out the windows toward the parking lot, “I’d want to know.” 

“Yeah,” said Stiles, like he was just as sure. Maybe a few weeks ago he would have been. 

Allison squeezed his hand. “You’re a good friend, Stiles.” 

“Okay,” said Stiles, like he was sure about that, too. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” said a familiar voice. 

Stiles and Allison looked up at Mrs. Argent. 

“May I speak with you a moment?” She crooked a finger. 

Stiles began to get to his feet, but Allison held on to his wrist. 

“Is this really about your admissions essays?” she said.

Stiles traded a look with Mrs. Argent before settling back in his seat. Mrs. Argent leaned against the table. She looked at her daughter for a long moment, but Allison’s jaw was set, her eyes bright. 

“I failed to uphold my end of our bargain,” said Mrs. Argent.

“Oh,” said Stiles. 

“Bargain?” said Allison. 

“Mr. Stilinski has agreed to hold his tongue, provided that we help him imprison Scott’s attacker.”

Allison glanced quickly at Stiles, and Stiles grimaced. Yes, he was blackmailing her mother with information she’d given him. Allison looked away from them both, out at the parking lot again.

Such a good friend was he. 

“Let’s just say you owe me one,” Stiles muttered. 

Mrs. Argent gave him a speculative look, then lifted away from the table. She left them without a backwards glance. 

Allison didn’t say anything, but she didn’t touch his hand again, either. 

Stiles looked out at the parking lot.

*

The numbness spread like a water stain.

It didn’t matter if he didn’t think about it, because if the thoughts didn’t surface, the dreams did. They left him empty and sticky, the ghost of blue sparks behind his eyelids. 

Lacrosse practice became an ordeal. Finstock eventually gave up and just planted him on the bench. Stiles cared, but it was distant. 

He was wrapped in cotton. 

Scott skipped lunch in the cafeteria for at least a week, but when he joined them, he did it with a pained smile. It was the warmest Stiles felt for days, too important to be smothered. 

One morning when a dream woke him at five o’clock, he slipped downstairs and watched the feeds on mute. 

When the NBCNN morning show appeared, Stiles frowned. Sally grilled some starlet about her latest project. 

He leaned forward on the couch, forehead creased. He watched the young woman flutter her eyelashes and cover her mouth with a hand, and he could have gnashed his teeth. They showed a reaction shot of the crowd, their expressions adoring. When Sally touched the girl’s elbow and then turned towards the camera for a laugh, Stiles jumped to his feet. He marched to the set and jammed the power-push. The feed blinked out. 

Stiles stood in the living room and tried to take slow, deep breaths. 

He earned a week’s worth of detention that day. 

As they walked off the lacrosse fields together, Scott bumped shoulders with Stiles.

*

They played video games for two hours in silence. Gradually, Stiles’ mash-pushes became less violent. His frown softened and he slouched a little more. Scott began to tease him, and Stiles didn’t snap.

Halfway through their third run of a level in StarJock, Scott spoke up. “So, are you gonna tell me or what?” 

“Tell you?”

Scott shot him a look. 

Stiles shrugged. 

They played for another ten minutes. 

“He didn’t believe me,” said Stiles. He swallowed hard after he said it. 

“About Peter?” 

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “He thought I was, like, spying on him or some shit.” 

“Spying on him?”

“I know, right?” Stiles tried to laugh, but it shook out of him dry as sun-baked sand. 

“But can’t he hear your heart?”

“Yeah. I don’t know.” Stiles remembered how Derek had looked over his shoulder, past him, like he was seeing something else. “He didn’t want to hear it.”

“Asshole,” said Scott and jammed the action button. A spray of laser fire erupted from his character’s weapon. 

“Yeah.” He thought of Derek’s blue eyes flashing at him. He remembered what it felt like to have those eyes fixed on him, hooded and blown with arousal. He remembered how bright they looked in the dark, how he could feel them on him even when he couldn’t see. It hadn’t mattered, even in the beginning, if Stiles couldn’t see him. When Derek had marked him out in the open, it hadn’t mattered that Stiles couldn’t see in the dark; he felt how carefully Derek touched him, even when he had permission to hurt him. 

Stiles’ stomach twisted. 

“Dude?” said Scott. 

Stiles looked up. Scott looked pointedly at his hands, and Stiles realized he’d stopped playing. The controller sat in a nest of loose fingers. 

“Sorry,” said Stiles, and he huffed when it came out hoarse. He didn’t want to sound that way. 

“It’s cool,” said Scott. 

“Fuck.” Stiles tossed the controller aside. He looked at it lying quiescent on the rug. “I’m supposed to be his—his—you know, his fucking mate or whatever, and he wouldn’t even listen. It didn’t—” Stiles’ voice broke. He slammed a hand against his knee, trying to knock himself back together. “It didn’t fucking matter.”

The game chirped when Scott hit pause. Scott’s controller clattered onto the pile next to Stiles’. When Stiles dared a glance towards Scott, his friend was leaning back against the couch cushions, staring towards the paused game. He sipped his soda. 

“I just—I wish I could take back every dumbass thing I ever did in front of him.” He looked at the ceiling. “I wish he’d think about me and just be forced to think about how fucking…awesome I am?” He started to laugh, but didn’t have the air. “I don’t know. I made a fool of myself.”

“Good,” said Scott. “That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re with somebody. Anything less is cowardly bullshit.” 

“This wisdom comes from your many long-term relationships, huh?”

“Nah, dude. My mom.” 

Stiles snorted and rubbed at his face. 

Scott smiled, and Stiles smiled back. It only quivered a little.

*

Two hours later, there was a knock at the door.

Stiles paused the game again. 

Scott scented the air and bared his teeth. That was enough to make Stiles’ heart jump in his chest. 

Before Stiles could push himself to his feet, Scott had the door cracked. 

“What do you fucking want,” said Scott—not a question. 

“My claim,” Derek snarled. 

“Go to hell,” said Scott. He closed the door. 

“Dude,” said Stiles. 

“What? You really want to talk to him?”

Derek knocked again. 

Stiles sighed. He walked past Scott and cracked the door. 

Derek glared at him. Stiles made a point of breathing evenly, hoping his heart would get the memo and stop jumping around at the sight of the asshole’s cheekbones. 

“We need to talk.” 

“We needed to talk two weeks ago,” said Stiles.

Derek didn’t say anything, because of course he didn’t. 

“You slammed your door in my face.”

An eyebrow twitched. 

“You had security escort me downstairs, you useless fuck. I should leave you out here. I should call a fucking photographer and leave your ass on my porch to howl like a horny basset hound.” 

“Look, are you still in this or not?”

Stiles stared at him, mouth hanging open. He closed the door. 

“Thank god,” said Scott. 

Stiles slid the chain out of the lock and opened it up again. He walked away, halfway up the stairs when he heard the house creak under Derek’s feet. 

“Come on,” said Stiles. He didn’t look to see if Derek was following or if Scott was glaring at him. 

Derek shut the bedroom door behind him. Stiles stood in front of the window and crossed his arms over his chest.

Derek shifted uneasily. 

“Well?” said Stiles. “Spit it out.” 

"You weren't answering your phone." 

"Wow, yeah, I guess you’re right." 

"You need to answer your phone." 

"Are you fucking serious? What do you want, Derek?"

Derek’s fists clenched along with his teeth. "They think we're in a fight.” 

"We are in a fight." 

"I know that. But they _think_ we're in a fight." 

"Who is they?" 

"The press. Laura. Everyone." 

"The press,” said Stiles. Goddamn it, the cotton was coming back. He could feel the fire smothering, and he needed it. He needed it for exactly this moment. 

"Yes." 

"Well…” Stiles shook his head, “good. Isn't that good? Now you can drop me. Pick somebody else. Rebound." 

"It doesn't work like that." 

Stiles looked at his headboard, not at Derek. "What doesn't? You…broke up with me. Or, like, the equivalent, right? So…” Stiles swallowed. “Whatever, you didn't want me anyway. Get somebody else." 

"I can't just—you're Marked. You’re pack. You're _mine_." 

"I'm _mine_ , actually, thank you." 

"Not to them,” said Derek. “To them, you and I _will be_ , or there will be headlines." 

Stiles leaned back against the wall. He choked on a laugh and rubbed at his eyes. 

"What?" 

“I’m just…” He dropped his hand to dangle at his side. “It's not so much that you can't break it off,” he said. “It's that you can't do it right now. The election's how many days off? Can't have anybody messing with the news cycle until Laura's parked the Beamer in the garage." 

"You're always so fucking cynical." 

Stiles nodded. He was. He was also right, but who cared? "So, what?” he said. “We hold hands in the park, get our picture taken, kiss for the cameras?" 

Derek grimaced. 

"What, no kissing? I disgust you now?" The corner of a cardboard box poked out from under Stiles’ bedspread. Stiles let his eyes touch it just long enough to recognize what it was and flinch away. 

"It won't be good enough,” said Derek.

"What won’t?” 

“Photographs,” Derek growled. “It’s...you’re _pack_. You have been...for too long." 

"Oh my god." 

"It's…unusual…for…." 

"Oh my _god_ , you are not actually going to marry me for press coverage." 

Derek burst. "As opposed to what? What did you think was going on here, Stiles?” He met Stiles against the wall, leaving a scant foot between them. “This was the deal. This _is_ the deal. You get what you want; I get what I want.” He looked down at Stiles’ mouth, then up at Stiles’ eyes. “Nothing's changed." 

Stiles watched Derek’s chest heave until he couldn’t stand it. He shoved past Derek’s shoulder and marched across the room. 

He paused at the end of his bed. He chewed on his lip. 

"Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll have a cute little date in the park. One kiss, so they can take a freakin’ picture. We'll hold hands as we walk back to the car." 

"Fine. And—" 

Stiles didn’t want to hear his voice. "Next moon, I'll be at your loft an hour before sunset. I want a written contract, just like you promised. We'll sign it; you'll knot me. In the morning, I'll go home.” He stared at his pillows, not seeing them. “After the election, we'll have a spat. You'll sleep with a bimbo. I'll go to college in Philadelphia. We'll be officially estranged." 

"Fine." 

"Fine.” He jerked his hand toward the door. “Get the fuck out."

*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNATION STRUCTURE
> 
> ABBREVIATION "Common Pronunciation" [Nicknames/Slang] > Method of Birth - Genetic Code - Presentation
> 
>  
> 
>  _Human_ [HSs]
> 
>  
> 
> VHS "Vuss" [Derogatorily: "tapes", Less derogatorily: "little Vs"]> Viviparous Homo Sapien
> 
> WOSHS "Whoa-shiss" > Wombed Organic Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
> VSHS like "Vicious" > Viviparous Sequenced Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
>  _Werewolves_ [WWs, LPs, or double-doubles]
> 
>  
> 
> WOLPH "Wolf" > Wombed Organic Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> VLPH "Vull-f" > Viviparous Lupine Preset Humanoid
> 
> WOALPHS "Whoa-lfs" > Wombed Organic Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
> VALPHS "Vaw-lfs" > Viviparous Acquired Lupine Preset Homo Sapien
> 
>  
> 
> Also: CoPA = Commonwealth of Pacific America = colloquially called Pacific America or 'CoPA', pronounced 'koh-puh'. CoPA is the WW nation formed out of Oregon, Washington, California, and parts of Idaho. 
> 
> **EXTRA NOTE:** this chapter contains some unhappy sex. Everybody verbally consents beforehand, but if you can't stand the angst, stay outta the chapter. For explicit warnings about it, see the end notes. (It also contains some happier sex, but it's still emotionally fraught. Oh, the humanity.)

“You want me to say it? Is that it? Fine, okay, I’ll say it: you’re making a huge mistake. You will regret this. Forever.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” said Stiles. 

“Maybe? Maybe. Seriously, maybe? Have you heard yourself the last week? Do you hear yourself right now?”

“You know what, Scott—”

“He wrecked you, Stiles! You used you, and he wrecked you, and now you’re going to let him do it again, and for what?” 

“For a life expectancy over age sixty, all right? Because I got jumped in a parking lot, and I got _wrecked_ , and they whispered, and they took pictures, and I can’t let it be for nothing. Because it’s my goddamn decision, and some of us don’t have an LP safety net to fall back on. Is that all right with you? Does that meet your criteria for a moral fucking life choice?” 

Scott couldn’t look at him. 

“I’m not having this conversation again. It’s done.” 

They didn’t talk about it any more.

*

Their date went exactly as agreed upon. If Stiles caught Derek staring more than once at the scarred Mark on his shoulder, well...some things were just programming.

*

“You’re going through with it,” said the Sheriff.

Stiles walked down the last two steps and slid into a chair. “That obvious?” 

“All over your face, kid.” 

Stiles picked up the pepper grinder and turned it upside down. 

“You still don’t like it,” said Stiles. 

“You’re an adult now.” 

Stiles looked up from the gritty gears. “Gonna make me cry again?” 

His dad raised an eyebrow. “Want me to? I don’t have anything prepared, but gimme a sec….”

“No,” said Stiles, smiling sadly. “That’s okay.” 

“There gonna be a ceremony?” 

“Ceremony?”

“Jesus, kid, you plan this at all?” 

“I...don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Eventually. I think we might wait a while. Just get it all set in place, then do the public thing...later.” 

“Hm.” 

“It’s what I want,” said Stiles. 

His dad studied him carefully. “Any way I can stop you?” 

“Lock me in the basement. Shoot Derek.”

“Well,” said his dad, “I’ll think it over.”

*

Stiles looked up the time of sunset and left his house an hour before. He didn’t want to wait around for the moon to rise, but he didn’t want to push an LP too far on Moonday.

In and out, he thought, but he couldn’t summon a grin. 

His backpack thumped against the passenger door. It had to be the most bizarre overnight bag he’d ever packed, lumpy and heavy with the monstrous bottle of lube, extra boxers, and a butt plug. Seriously, this was his life now. 

The sun slipped its toes beneath the horizon as Derek opened the door to his apartment. 

Stiles didn’t know what he expected to have changed, but it looked exactly the same. He toed off his shoes, and Derek walked to the little cafe table beside the kitchen. 

Stiles joined him and picked up the contract from the tabletop. Thick and smooth, Stiles weighed it in his hands. He settled into one of the chairs at the table, picked up a pen, and began to read. 

Derek took the seat across from him. Keeping pace with Stiles’ reading, he slid his copy of the contract across the table and pointed to the lines where he’d already initialed and was waiting for Stiles to do the same. 

They didn’t speak. 

When Stiles began to squint at his pages, Derek flicked on an overhead fixture. The darker it grew outside, the more Derek fidgeted in his seat, but still, they didn’t speak. He didn’t rush Stiles along. Patiently, he waited until Stiles signed his full name on the last signature line. 

The pen clicked on the tabletop. “There,” said Stiles. Derek nodded. 

Outside, traffic honked and rushed, but the silence of the apartment pressed in. Stiles slipped off the chair. He stuffed the contract into his bag. Derek flicked his eyes inside, like he couldn’t help himself, and when he looked up, Stiles smirked. 

“Opening night,” he said. Derek didn’t smile. 

Stiles gestured toward the balcony. “I’ll meet you on the porch,” he said. 

There were only four doors in the entire apartment. One of them was the front door, one of them was the balcony, so Stiles figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the bathroom on the first try.

A hand on his shoulder held him captive.

“What?” said Stiles, not gently. 

“I could help,” said Derek. 

Stiles felt the first tingle of arousal in his gut as he imagined how Derek could ‘help.’ He bit his tongue to kill it.

“It might be...better,” said Derek. 

Stiles breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. “Porch,” he said. 

Door number one was a bathroom, thank god.

*

The bag hit the tiles with a muffled clunk. Stiles leaned against the sink and buried his hands in his hair.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He thought he could do this. He thought he could, but just Derek’s hands on his shoulders made him want to swallow his tongue and run away. Or, worse, jump into his arms and never fucking leave. 

He crouched on the floor and ripped open his bag. 

He’d signed the contract, he thought, pushing it aside to reach the plug and pull out the lube. 

He’d signed, and he told everyone, and maybe, just maybe….

Or maybe not. It didn't matter anymore. He’d take what he could get.

*

The door slid closed. The city sprawled before him, reflecting on the balcony in shades of red, yellow, and blue. Except for the welcome mat outside the door, the balcony was floored by a thick mattress, covered in some kind of dark canvas. The mattress stretched from the tracks of the sliding door to the glass and cement ledge. The ledge itself was thick, posts wide and near each other, the balcony built for optimal light with a minimum of wind.

A few body pillows in plusher fabrics sat propped around the perimeter, and Stiles wondered how much of this stuff Derek had bought just for tonight. None of it? All of it? 

Derek leaned against the side of the house, a pillow propped behind him. He looked up when Stiles came outside, eyes glowing blue. He was fully shifted. As Stiles watched, his eyebrows grew back; his ears lost their point; his claws melted away. 

Stiles wobbled on the mattress at first, but it was only a few steps before he knelt down between Derek’s legs. 

The full moon cast Derek in silver-blue from the waist down. His eyes dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened, and Stiles saw him clench his fists. 

“I told you,” said Stiles. “I don’t care.” 

Derek sighed, and his eyes glowed steadily.

“You…?” Derek said it slowly, like he had to concentrate. Stiles saw the fangs flash in his mouth. 

“Ready,” he said. The plug sat on the back of the toilet, but he’d stretched himself on it. He felt worked and open. 

“No,” said Derek. He looked pained. “Do you…?” 

Stiles’ eyes drifted down from Derek’s face. He made eye contact with his nipples, becoming painfully aware of his own bare chest.

“I want you to,” said Stiles, quietly, like if he said it softly enough, Derek wouldn’t hear the way his heart never skipped a beat. 

“Good,” said Derek. His eyes were like beacons now, casting their own shadows on his face. His sideburns were thicker than normal. 

Swallowing his butterflies, Stiles crept closer in the V of Derek’s legs. 

He’d pulled on his boxers, because he couldn’t have walked outside in nothing, it was just too weird. Looking down at Derek’s tight briefs, he wondered at the practicality.

Scruff brushed his cheek, and Stiles startled. He looked at Derek for a long moment, and Derek waited. Stiles pressed their cheeks together again, and Derek rumbled deep in chest.

“You sound like a cat,” said Stiles. “A big one.” 

Derek nipped his jaw. 

Stiled jerked away. “No teeth tonight.”

Derek winced, then nodded against his neck. Stiles chose not to wonder if it was because he couldn’t form words with fangs in his mouth. 

A breeze from the city carried a howl on its back. Stiles shivered. He leaned into Derek’s chest. 

The goosebumps on his back were half from the breeze, half from Derek’s hands when he touched them to Stiles’ skin. Ten needles rested lightly on his back; Derek’s claws were out. Lines of bright sensation followed Derek’s fingertips when he drew them up, then down, the sides of Stiles’ spine. He matched it with a lick on his Mark. 

“I still smell good?” said Stiles with a smile.

Derek huffed. He tugged on Stiles’ hips, yanking him forward until Stiles hooked his legs over Derek’s thighs and leaned in. Derek cupped his ass and pulled him closer, pressing their erections together. 

Stiles gasped. Derek shoved his nose behind Stiles’ ear. 

“Good,” said Derek. It was adorable and dirty, and Stiles grinned. He rolled his hips, and both their mouths went a little slack. 

When he stopped, Derek growled. Stiles laughed, but when Derek tugged him forward again, he dipped his pelvis. They rocked together. Derek slid his cheek down Stiles’ neck, coming to rest with his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder. The tan expanse of his throat lay stretched and bare. Stiles rubbed his fingertips from Derek’s jaw to his collarbones, and Derek shuddered. 

Where their cocks brushed was bright, addicting pleasure, pushing warmth through Stiles’ body with every press. It wasn’t until Stiles looked down that he realized how wet they were. 

“Oh,” Stiles breathed. Derek’s white shorts were soaked in the front. A dark stain spread all down the left leg. Smudges of wet had even soaked into Stiles’ roomy boxers, the fabric clinging to his shaft and balls, adding to the evidence of his own dribbling precome.

Derek’s cock was hot as a sun-warmed brick. Stiles pressed his palm against it, rubbing lightly. Derek pressed his hips up, breath hitching. 

A howl and an answer echoed up to them. Derek snarled. 

Stiles shushed him, eyes on where his hand traced the shape of Derek’s cock. Derek whined. 

“All right,” said Stiles. He slipped his fingers beneath Derek’s waistband. Slowly, he peeled the sodden fabric down. The head emerged, purple, tilting back towards Derek’s twitching abdominals. 

“Shit, Derek,” said Stiles. From the slit glistened, not a few dots, but a steady, dripping flow of precome. It was watery and clear, but it kept flowing, running down the shaft of Derek’s dick. 

Curiously, Stiles rubbed a thumb against the head, then brought his fingers to his mouth. He’d barely sucked the dough-and-salt taste onto his tongue before he found himself tumbled backwards, one of Derek’s hands cupping the back of his neck. 

All Stiles could see was blue, blue eyes, and then he felt Derek all down his front, straddling his hips and kissing him. 

Derek’s tongue, hot and wet, chased himself between Stiles’ lips. Stiles kissed back, slithering their tongues together, careful to avoid the edges of Derek’s fangs. With Derek’s hand around the back of his neck, Stiles could feel Derek shaking. His hips hitched in tiny increments, pushing his dick into the puddle spilling on Stiles’ stomach.

Stiles bit down on a moan when Derek thumbed his nipple.

With both hands, Derek smeared his precome over Stiles’ belly. He swept a satin tongue over Stiles’ navel, then snuffled at Stiles’ waistband. No sooner had Stiles dropped his arms to help remove them, then Derek’s claws slid through the fabric. He flung the tatters to the side. 

“That should not be hot,” said Stiles, but it was a lie, and Derek ignored it. He was busy nosing his way into Stiles’ groin. He looked up with glowing eyes, shoulders bunched and muscles tight. He took a deep inhale with his mouth slightly open, the way Stiles had seen him do before. 

Derek reared back, sitting on his heels. 

With one hand, he rubbed at Stiles’ left hip, lifting him slightly, tilting him to the side before letting him sink back to the mattress. His other hand he wrapped around his cock, holding himself tight at the base. He stared down at Stiles expectantly. 

“Okay,” said Stiles, panting. “Okay.”

The mattress felt coarse beneath his hands and knees. When he’d assumed the position—holding himself up on his palms, his legs spread—he heard a vicious snarl behind him. 

Stiles whirled around or tried to. Derek grabbed his hips and leaned in, using his weight to pin him in place, collapsing Stiles’ arms. Stiles grunted, barely catching himself on his elbows before getting a faceful of faux-canvas. 

“Derek?” 

The answering growl was not comforting.

“Derek, are you…?” About to munch on my innards?

Derek’s grasp was firm, one hand on Stiles’ upper arm, the other on his hip. Stiles rocked nervously. 

Something soft and wet pressed against his Mark—a kiss, Stiles realized. His shoulders relaxed a little. 

Derek pressed another kiss against the blade of his shoulder. It was tender, fangs carefully tucked inside his lips. Stiles clenched his hands in the mattress cover. 

“Come on,” he said. “Come on, Derek, just…” He could feel a trail of watery precome slinking down his thigh. Derek’s chest pressed flush to his back, covering him in warmth and weight, pushing him firmly into the mattress, holding him safe and still.

Stiles’ breathing grew quicker. 

Derek arched up, but not away, moving just enough to slip his hand from Stiles’ arm, stroke down Stiles’ body, and slip between the cheeks of his ass. He rubbed his fingers against Stiles’ hole, claws tilted carefully out of the way. 

Stiles levered himself up on an elbow and twisted around. Derek glanced at him, but then looked back down at his fingers. His face was wholly shifted, twisted and strange. It was ugly, but not scary. Derek’s lips parted to allow extra room for his fangs. He panted. 

The tip of a claw caught delicate flesh, and Stiles hissed.

In a second, Derek ducked his body down and pressed his tongue against the sting. Stiles gasped. His cock jerked. 

Derek lapped against Stiles’ hole, soothing the sting and his stretched, contracting muscles. Stiles pressed his face against the mattress.

He swallowed the scream building in his throat.

Shaking, he shifted his face against the fabric, pressed his forehead down. What had he seen in those videos? The ones with the tiny women and the enormous LPs? The ones where the pack kidnapped some lonely HS girl and passed her around? The ones where it was over quick, there were rivers of come, and nobody looked like they’d shaken themselves apart because getting rimmed was just too fucking much for their emotions?

Stiles lifted his hips and pushed them up. Presenting—that’s what they called it. 

Derek was back on him before he had a chance to spread his legs, curled over the back of him with their thighs touching. The sound Derek made was approving, though how Stiles could differentiate between an approving growl and warning of impending death, not even Stiles was entirely sure. He just knew it—knew the tone and the angle of the eyebrow tilt that would match it, if Derek had eyebrows to tilt. 

Stiles felt the tip of Derek’s cock smearing wet trails between his thighs. 

Derek thrust against him, humping his cock between his thighs, shoving him forward. Stiles braced himself, hand curled in the mattress, but Derek stuttered to a standstill on his own. His chest heaved against Stiles’ back, shivering so hard that Stiles could feel his restraint like a bit in his own mouth. 

“Derek, just—” Stiles panted. He reached behind him and took hold of Derek’s cock. He pressed the head to his opening. 

With a slow, careful thrust, Derek pushed inside. Stiles choked. 

Derek withdrew to the head, quivering so hard Stiles felt like he was shaking, too. He thrust in again, inches deeper, but not all the way. 

“Oh, come on,” said Stiles. “Come on, I did this, I got open for you, just—just—”

Derek thrust in, balls slapping against Stiles’ ass. It hurt, but Stiles had spent a good long time with the plug, and god, Stiles felt full. Derek’s skin felt shower-water hot, and his cock felt almost burning, like a radiant core at Stiles’ center. When he pulled out, Stiles felt raw, when he thrust in, Stiles felt singed. Filled. Covered. Kept. 

Derek’s angle shifted, and pleasure cascaded through Stiles’ body. 

“No,” said Stiles, gasping, murmuring to the mattress. “No, I don’t—god, you’re fucking useless." The bitter taste of the canvas filled his mouth as he panted. "Fuck me. Fuck me. Don’t—” 

Derek’s hips stuttered. He thrust harder, once. It felt better—a little unkind. It scraped Stiles’ cheek against the mattress. 

“Yeah,” said Stiles. 

Derek growled. He set a new pace—slow on the outstroke, quick as he thrust in. It make Stiles breathe faster, but it wasn’t enough. There was too much room in his head for wonderings. He wanted to lose the air in his chest, wanted pain at his center, wanted something other than warmth to hold on to—to remember. He didn’t want to remember this and wish….

On Derek’s next outstroke, Stiles bucked his hips, sliding him out. Derek made a discontented noise, but lined his hips up to thrust back in. Stiles wiggled. Twisting his torso in Derek’s loose grasp; he ducked his body away from Derek’s thrusts. 

The growl in Derek’s throat grew deeper, rougher, less like a purr. He tightened his arm around Stiles’ chest.

“Come on, Derek. I want you.”

Derek grabbed Stiles’ hips with his free hand, holding tightly and trying to line himself up. Stiles kicked his leg back. With a yelp, Derek let go of him. 

Stiles crawled forward, twisting until he was on his side. 

The noise Derek made was half whine, half growl. Stiles got his feet under him. His knees shook, but he started to push himself to his feet. He grabbed at the side of the building for leverage.

Derek did not like that. 

An arm like a steel beam wrapped his torso cross-wise, holding him from behind, Derek’s claw-tipped fingers clenching around his shoulder. Stiles grabbed at Derek’s arm just in time to be yanked backwards. He stumbled and landed on his knees.

Derek growled a warning in his ear, his other hand already between them, slipping claws between his asscheeks, guiding his cock to Stiles’ hole. 

Stiles bucked, flexing his ass into Derek’s crotch before wrenching away, fighting the tightening grasp Derek had on his torso. Derek palmed at his hip, trying to get him stay still, but too careful to dig in his claws for a firmer grip. 

Stiles bucked again, and Derek thrust a knee between his legs. The hard brush against his balls made Stiles wince, but then there were two thick thighs between his knees, thrusting his legs into a triangle. His hips screamed. It effectively hobbled him, tilting him high on Derek’s thighs, tilted forward in Derek’s grasp. 

Scrambling for leverage against the siding, Stiles paid little attention to Derek’s fumbling hands and leaking cock until the head of it pressed into him. 

Derek thrust in, hard, and Stiles gasped, jerking forward, hands curling against the wall. All the impact was absorbed by Derek’s arm. His python grip held Stiles in place. 

Once inside him, Derek didn’t stop. He grabbed Stiles’ hip and hammered forward, pounding him fast and hard. Slick skin slapped together. The thrusts came hard enough to push the air from Stiles’ lungs, and too fast for him to breathe deep. He gasped as well as he could, mouth hanging open. He burned inside.

Derek whined in Stiles’ ear.

His cock glanced off Stiles’ prostate, building heat and shooting tingles through Stiles’ body fast enough to numb him. It didn’t feel good, exactly, it just felt like a lot. It felt like too much when Derek moved a hand and pushed his fingers against Stiles' cock, rubbing against the head, making a passage for Stiles to thrust through when Derek drove him forward. Stiles came in self defense. He dripped all over himself and Derek’s thighs, eyes rolling back in his head as Derek’s thrusts rode him from ecstasy to overstimulation. 

Stiles knew the knot was coming before he felt it swell, because Derek changed his pace. Instead of fast and hard, he slowed down and pushed deep. The arm across Stiles’ chest released him, making it easier for Stiles to breathe. Derek wrapped his hands around Stiles’ hips and strained in as far as he could. 

Stiles braced his arms against the wall, forehead on his wrists. Derek panted against the nape of Stiles’ neck.

The more it swelled, the louder Derek’s whines, the harder he struggled to press into Stiles. With a final thrust, the knot slipped in, and when Derek drew back, it tugged against his rim. Stiles yelped. 

Derek humped against him, muscles bunching and flexing. The slick edge of his fangs pressed into Stiles’ Mark, but Derek didn’t bite. 

His hips stilled. Stiles tried to catch his breath. The knot stretched him wide. 

The plug was the same size, maybe larger, but it never felt this way. It didn’t feel like Derek filling all his spaces. Like Derek wanted to stay inside him, live inside him. Have him. 

Derek howled.

*

Derek turned them on their side, reversing the nesting order of their legs. Stiles hissed when he tried to close his thighs. Derek slid his hand over his haunch and took the pain.

They lay spooned on the mattress, Derek’s bulkier body curled around him, radiating heat. His lips were parted, his cheek pressed against Stiles’ Mark. Every few minutes, his whole body would shudder, and he’d pulse his hips against Stiles’ ass. As if he could possibly get deeper. 

Stiles was jealous. Half a dozen orgasms sounded awesome. He was also wary. He didn’t want to think about the mess when all of that come uncorked. It was already seeping around the knot, making a nice wet puddle beneath their groins. 

Stiles never thought he’d get sleep with a fist of pulsing flesh inside him, but somewhere between the pain drain and the sounds of the city, his mind checked out. 

When he woke, he was on his stomach. Derek was above him, straddling his thighs. The mattress under his cock was stiff and tacky. It was dark outside. When Stiles turned his head to look, the full moon shined down on them. 

Derek leaned over him, one hand planted in the small of Stiles’ back, the other above his shoulder. He nudged his lips against Stiles’ ear. 

Derek rolled his hips, and Stiles gasped. The knot had shrunk considerably, but Derek’s cock was still buried inside him. 

Derek moved both hands to the sides of Stiles’ shoulders, then lowered himself to his forearms. His chest pressed Stiles’ back. Their whole bodies rubbed together as Derek rolled forward. 

Blue eyes cast strange shadows on Stiles’ folded arms. Stiles slitted his eyes, too sleepy to keep them open. He spread his thighs wider. His cock perked as its head brushed the mattress.

Derek breathed in his ear and shifted against him, pressing kisses against his cheek, behind his ear, on his tender throat. When Stiles hummed appreciatively, Derek’s range widened, and kisses rained down on his shoulders, his wrists, his fingertips….

The knot swelled and Derek stilled above him. Stiles shifted, whimpered, and Derek began to move again, humping in tiny thrusts. The knot pulsed against Stiles’ prostate, and Stiles panted, rolled his hips, pushing his cock into the mattress. Derek matched his rhythm, shuddering through his own orgasms. 

Derek clutched at Stiles’ hands as their pace increased. Stiles dug his nails between Derek’s fingers and came, clenching around the knot. 

When Stiles came back to himself, he wanted to move. The wet spot was ridiculous. But that seemed like an awful lot of work.

Both of Derek’s hands folded with Stiles’, arms around arms, face tucked into his neck—a sweater on a hanger. 

Stiles slept.

*

The next time Stiles woke, he wasn’t in a wet patch anymore. The sun flashed on the metal banister, and Stiles squinted. A quilt tangled around his legs when he shifted.

A warm hand stroked down his back, and Stiles got the impression it wasn’t the first time. He twisted around. Derek lay on his side behind him. 

The sunlight broke around Derek's shape. It lit planes of him in gold and orange, and sliced the rest of him into rich black shadows. Imagine Derek with a halo, Stiles thought. He’d dreamed stranger things. 

Derek’s face looked tight. His eyes were tender, but in the way of rotting fruit. His gaze dripped down Stiles’ body, feature to feature, as if committing Stiles to memory. 

Stiles looked down at where Derek’s thumb stroked his hip. Beneath his fingers, thin red lines. Scratches decorated his hips and torso. Faint purple shadows marked where Derek had held on so tightly, so desperate to keep him where he wanted him. 

“Sorry,” said Stiles softly.

Derek’s eyes jumped wide, and he stared at Stiles. His eyelashes were very black and long. In his halo, he looked young, Stiles thought. He touched Derek’s jaw. 

“Smile, jerk,” said Stiles. “You just got laid.” He stroked his thumb against Derek’s cheek. 

Derek leaned into Stiles’ hand, but he didn’t smile. 

Stiles let his hand fall. He pulled up the quilt and drifted back to sleep.

*

The next time he woke, his ass throbbed. He peeled his face away from the back of the leather couch. His legs tangled in a quilt, so he kicked it to the floor. It looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

The apartment hummed with emptiness. Dust floated in beams of sunlight. Stiles’ backpack sat on the coffee table, the twin zipper heads matched up perfectly at the top of the pocket. So, Derek had definitely been in his bag. Hopefully, he’d washed the plug and replaced it 

Stiles was alone.

Stiles creaked to his feet, wincing as every unfolded inch uncovered a brand new ache. He took a shower, ate a bowl of cereal, and when he couldn’t possibly dawdle another second and retain his self respect, he slipped on his shoes and left. 

Before he went, he removed the scraps of his boxers from his backpack and stuffed them between the couch cushions.

*

When Stiles showed up at Scott’s house, Scott scowled at him. His nostrils flared, and he stared at Stiles for a long moment before letting him in the door.

“It’s weird,” he said. “You smell like him.” 

“You mean I smell like his—”

“I mean you smell like him—like you are him. Sort of. You’re there, too, I mean, but it’s…” Scott’s forehead creased. “Different,” he decided. 

“Hey, holy shit, a wild subject change appears.”

“You reek, dude.” 

“Oh my god, let's catch it quick and get back to the Pokemon Center. It looks pretty weak.” 

Scott rolled his eyes, but led the way to his basement. When Stiles sat on his side like a girl in a skirt, Scott only teased him for about an hour. Maybe two.

*

It was late in the evening when Scott grabbed Stiles by the ankle and shook. Stiles glared at him, but Scott was looking at the feed.

Stiles turned around, rubbing the lint off his face. 

Laura Hale was on the feed. The NBCNN logo glowed in the lower corner. She sat at the head of a panel of specialists, and next to her, ID’d by the scrolling text: the Director of the FBI, the Chair of the Senate LP Affairs Committee, and the official Homeland Security CoPA Liaison. 

“What’s going on?” said Stiles. 

“Laura Hale saved the world,” said Scott, eyes flicking attentively over the screen. 

_”—why the secrecy?”_

_“Security concerns, primarily. Rest assured that the results of our efforts—the legal resources for Eastern LPs, the new legislation, the establishment of the FBI task force—will operate transparently.”  
_

“Oh my god,” said Stiles. 

“It was all back channel stuff. She pulled it all off while running for election.” 

“Incredible,” Stiles agreed.

“Why are you not smiling?” said Scott. 

“My ass hurts, thanks for asking.” 

Scott threw a pillow at him. 

They watched the rest of the story, listening to each of the officials explain their part of the plan. By all accounts, it was the comprehensive response the public had been waiting for: legal and financial assistance to Eastern LPs; a special, joint FBI taskforce to investigate the Portland bombing and its connections to Eastern civil unrest; a commitment from East and West, both sides of the aisle, to pen more comprehensive hate crime legislation. It was more than they’d been waiting for. It was a chance for genuine change. 

And Peter Hale would hate it, Stiles thought, watching Scott watch the news. And Peter Hale was a killer, period. If only Stiles could prove it before Peter's wrath unraveled all of Laura's good.

Stiles concocted a plan.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Derek attempts to sex Stiles up tenderly, but Stiles can't emotionally handle it. He goads Derek into fucking him roughly. Neither of them stop having sex to discuss anything. Rough fucking includes, in this case: grabbing Stiles before he can move away, holding him tightly/pinning him, and thrusting into him hard enough that it's not entirely pleasurable. Please also keep in mind the mildly dubious consent tag, because it's earned in this chapter from both points of view.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that. 
> 
> Expect the rest in short order. 
> 
> Here we go.

Mrs. Argent was not impressed. Her stone expression had not cracked, but Stiles could tell. 

“You have a better idea?” 

“I don’t have an inferior one,” said Victoria. 

Stiles curled his lips under and shifted in his seat. 

“Mr. Stilinski, though I do appreciate your...initiative, your role in these matters has come to an end. It’s not necessary that you-”

“You owe me one, right?”

Victoria pursed her lips. 

“Well, dealer, I’d like to cash my chips. Now. On this.” 

Victoria took a deep breath, her eyelids fluttering like she was bracing herself. 

“And besides, it’s not like you’ve thought of anything better.”

Victoria’s glare was eloquent, but Stiles was still not sure that she’d help him. 

She tapped her long fingers against her desk, and Stiles tried to control his fidgeting. 

When she looked back up and folded her hands—he had her.

*

“Kate?” he said. The bleachers burned cold beneath his thighs.

Victoria's heels clattered on the metal as she ascended the steps. Perched on the row just behind him, she watched students run laps around the pillowphalt track. 

“Haven’t heard your voice in a while, sweetheart.” Kate Argent's voice drizzled through the phone. She sounded amused, like she had a private joke. Stiles worried it was at his expense. 

“Yeah…" said Stiles. "Yeah, I’ve been…" Stiles thought about what 'he'd been…' and then pointedly didn't, too aware of Victoria sitting behind him. "Y’know.”

“Tied up?” 

Stiles glanced at Victoria, but her cat eyes were on the field. 

“Sorry,” said Kate, not sounding it. “You're just cute when you're pink."

“People at school...stare,” said Stiles, jerking the words out of his mouth. It was true. They did. Especially the LPs. 

“Of course they do,” said Kate. “You smell like Hale. A lot of Hale." She laughed. "But that’ll pass, hon. It’ll fade.” 

"Right." He wondered if it would feel different when all the Derek had faded away. Or if he'd even know the difference. 

“When can I see you?” said Kate, her tone turning brittle. Apparently, that was the end of their script. 

“Soon,” said Stiles. Victoria flicked her eyes toward him. “Tomorrow night,” he corrected.

“Bring me a present?” 

“Of course.” 

“Is it that picture you sent me? That looked expensive.” Before their phone call, Victoria had sent Kate some sort of schematic from Stiles' phone. He hadn't gotten a clear look at it, but it had a triskelion printed in the upper right hand corner. 

“Only the best,” said Stiles. 

“See you tomorrow, cutie.” Kate hung up. 

The phone felt warm where it rested on his thigh. He looked to Victoria, and the woman nodded. 

"Are you sure he's listening?" 

"Yes," said Victoria. 

Stiles looked down at the phone. "It doesn't seem like enough. He has to be there. It won't work if—"

"He'll come." Victoria rose to her fleet with a clatter. Stiles had to tilt his head to see her face. "Trust me, Stiles." 

It occurred to Stiles that, between the two of them, Victoria probably knew Peter Hale better.

"Should I—"

"Do not contact Derek. If he calls, you do not answer. If he knocks on your door, you keep it shut. Understand?"

"No problem," he said. And it wasn't. He hadn't heard from Derek since….

Since.

*

The next day, classes crawled. His teacher dismissed him from History for hitting his knee on the bottom of his desk at an obnoxious tempo. Thankfully, he wasn't given detention. He couldn't have borne it. Lacrosse practice was bad enough, but it wasn't like he could skip. It wouldn't be normal. Normal was essential.

The locker room was…well, almost normal. 

Stiles caught one of Scott's teammates staring. He stared back, chin rising. The other boy's eyes slid away from his face, and Stiles watched, smiling vaguely, as the boy rushed out of the locker room shirtless, gear clutched in one hand. 

"Is it that bad?" Stiles turned to Scott. 

Scott grimaced. "It's, uh…" 

He rolled his eyes and slammed his locker shut. 

"It's fading," said Scott. "Really."

"Awesome." Stiles flung his bag over his shoulder. "Fading. Fantastic."

Scott offered a crooked, close-mouthed grin. "Doesn't bother me."

Stiles wondered why he hadn't gotten wolf-married to Scott. They were clearly meant to be. 

"Dude, I would have, like, a zillion of your cubs. Puppies. Whatever. Just so you, like, are aware." 

"Good to know." Scott scooped up his belongings and followed Stiles to the door. 

Scott was getting a ride home from Allison on the DL, so Stiles waved goodbye as they pushed through the double-doors and into the parking lot. 

Scott hovered. "Sure you don't wanna blast level six?" he said. His eyes twitched toward the other side of the parking lot where Allison no doubt waited. 

Stiles hesitated. 

It might be nice, he thought, to have somebody else there. Just in case. Just in case maybe this hare-brained scheme somehow managed to bite him in the ass, and, well, that was pretty much inevitable. His schemes always backfired less painfully when Scott was around, though, and they were working on this whole honesty thing, so maybe….

But now Scott's face was crumpled up with worry, and he'd turned his whole body towards Stiles, attention completely diverted. 

"It's cool, m'just gonna sleep," said Stiles. It was sorta true. Mostly true. He was going to sleep. Eventually. Hopefully.

He hoped it was true enough to fool Scott's lie-detecting superpowers, and if it wasn't, he hoped Scott took it to mean he had a long evening planned of masturbation and crying about Derek. Maybe at the same time. Who wouldn't lie about that? 

"All right," said Scott. "Text me, though." 

Stiles nodded and turned to the Jeep. 

"Stiles!" 

He jumped. In a moment, Scott was an inch from his face. 

Stiles heart thundered. "D-dude?"

Scott grabbed Stiles by the elbow and led him behind an empty car. "I saw you earlier." Scott's eyes flicked across Stiles' face, watching for a reaction. 

Stiles' eyes widened. "Uh…" 

"You're not going to just, like, leave?" Scott glanced to their right and left, like somebody could be eavesdropping on this bizarro conversation. "Right?" He turned lost-puppy eyes on Stiles. 

"What?" 

"I saw you talking with Allison's mom," Scott whispered. "And I know things…y'know, things didn't go so well with Derek, but you didn't really….If it was bad, and you don't wanna, y'know, talk, or whatever, that's fine, and if you have to go, I—I guess I get it, but you won't just…." Scott licked his lips.

"Dude," said Stiles. "No. I'm not—um—escaping my wolf-marriage…or whatever. Things weren't awesome. But they weren't…" Stiles remembered the weight of Derek's body, their arms stacked, hands curled together. "Bad," he croaked. 

Scott studied him like he was trying to decide if Stiles was lying. Stiles remembered a time when it wouldn't have occurred to Scott to check. He grabbed Scott's shoulder and squeezed. 

"You think I'd just sneak outta here without you, man?"

Scott shrugged. "I just know that I wanted to get the hell out of BH last summer. Quicksilver does that. For some mates, y'know. They help. Allison told me."

"Okay, well, I'm only fake-married, all right? Faux-mates. Totally PETA approved. No animals were harmed in the hitching of these…wagons." 

Scott grimaced, but he looked less tense. He went home with Allison.

*

Stiles beat level seven before he left for the drop site.

Victoria had warned him that Peter would be tracking him, but if Stiles was followed from his house, he didn't see it. There was one moment, passing the last red light on the edge of town, that Stiles thought a blue EcoV had stuck a little close through the last two turns, but as soon as he made a left onto the highway, the EcoV disappeared. 

All of his music annoyed him. Stiles cut off the LiLu mid-song and drove the last fifteen miles in silence.

*

_"I know Peter Hale, Stiles. He tapped your phone a long time ago."_

_"You’re sure."_

_"I’m sure."_

_"And this schematic will get him out there? What if he only checks my calls on Thursdays or something?"_

_"He’ll be there."  
_

*

There was a family of three sitting at one of the picnic tables when Stiles pulled into the rest stop. They clutched white bread sandwiches and drank water from disposable bottles. The boy, maybe ten, chewed sullenly, a squirt of mustard riding his cheek. Mom and Dad didn't speak, and absolutely no eye-contact was made. End of the road trip, then, Stiles thought.

He cut the engine. 

Ten minutes later, the family dumped their trash and climbed back into their massive car. As their engine revved, Stiles stumbled out of the Jeep. He checked his phone—ten minutes early—and started walking towards the edge of the picnic area. 

The gravel gave way to dirt and ferns, the skinny floodlights to sentinel pines. Twilight cut through the boughs, slanting red. Stiles walked for nearly five minutes before he saw her. 

Her tawny hair catching the light, tight denim hugging her hips, Kate Argent looked posed for a Ralph Lauren ad as she lounged against a pine tree. Stiles peered through the surrounding woods, but if she'd brought guards, he didn't see them. 

"Stiles," said Kate. She smiled and pushed away from the tree. Stiles felt his heart pick up. She was beautiful, and he was nervous, and it was hard to remember that the warmth in her voice wasn't real. That a pretty woman wasn't really excited to see him. 

She folded him into a hug. Her breasts pressed against his chest and the smell of her soap—something herbal and tea-like—enveloped him. "Always so punctual," said Kate. 

Stiles raised his hands to hug her back, but his arms were trapped. He patted at her awkwardly.

*

__

_"Are we setting up cameras?”_

_"We’re assembling witnesses."_

_"He’s not going to monologue like a Disney villain."_

_"Maybe. But Peter Hale never met a door he couldn't turn into an entrance."_

_"Probably hereditary, but—"_

_"We can’t pin him as the rogue without Laura’s corroboration, and that’s never going to happen. Don't worry, Mr. Stilinski. We’re baiting the hook with a morsel more tempting than you."  
_

*

"Are they here?" Stiles murmured.

Kate's arms tightened around him, then she abruptly let go. The look she shot Stiles as she released him was nothing short of venomous. 

_WW ears_ , Stiles admonished himself. How could he have forgotten? Deliberately, he unclenched his fists and jaw. Unfortunately, his stomach was not so easy to soothe. 

"Did you bring it?" said Kate, getting back on script.

"Just like you asked," said Stiles, resisting the urge to jump at every sway of a bough in the breeze. 

Kate held open her palm and, with her other hand, retrieved a ruby-colored phone from her pocket. Stiles dug into his jeans for the memory clip Mrs. Argent had handed him earlier that day. He placed it in the center of Kate's palm.

"Good boy," she said, and chucked him gently beneath the chin. 

"Yes, Stiles," said a voice from behind him, "that is a very good boy."

*

__

_"You're hoping for fraud?"_

_"Attempted murder."_

_"Of me?"_

_"Obviously not."_

_"Of Kate, then. And why must sweet Katherine die?"_

_"She just has that effect on people."  
_

*

It worked, Stiles thought. Peter Hale emerged from the woods with a cruel smirk on his lips. Kate's smile matched Peter's.

Behind her, Derek appeared in front of a tree, seemingly from thin air. He crossed his arms over his chest. Stiles' heart hopscotched up his throat. 

Derek looked calm. Beautiful. He looked…exactly the same. But it was the first time Stiles had seen him Since, and he wanted him to look different. Changed. He wasn't. He wasn't at all. Just the same as he'd looked cut up into glowing orange slices and deep blue shadows, just the same. 

Not the time, Stiles thought, and tried to swallow without choking. 

Why would Peter bring Derek here? Was…and Stiles' eyes widened. Derek couldn't be a part of this….

Even as he thought it, his brain began to crunch the facts, connecting Derek's access to investigational documents, his complicity in his family's secrets, his internship at Tris, his devotion to his sister…and after all, hadn't Derek approached him only after seeing him fight with Scott? One of the…one of _his_ victims? After Stiles, arrogant little Tape that he was, rejected the Bite outright?

No. Stiles wouldn't….No, there was no good reason not to believe it, but there was another explanation. There had to be. 

"Derek," said Kate. Her posture shifted, but she didn't turn towards him. 

"Kate," said Derek, pained. Kate's smirk stretched. 

"Had to see it for himself," said Peter, and Stiles ripped his eyes away from Derek, reminded of the monster prowling behind him. He turned, but there was no good place to put his back. Not that facing down his death would stop it, but it was instinct. 

Stiles looked around them again, searching the trees for Quicksilver minions. Now would be a great time for a grand entrance, he thought. Now, now, now.

"I thought you were smarter that this, Stiles." Peter sighed. "Or at least more interesting." 

"Sorry to disappoint," said Stiles.

Peter's stalking forced him to turn around if he wanted to keep him in his sights. The moment he did, Stiles came face-to-face with Derek, suddenly in front of him like a wall of gloom and black leather. Stiles flailed, just like he did when Derek snuck up on him in the parking lot at school. Except usually it drew a reluctant smile out of Derek, or at least a roll of his eyes. Now, he didn't twitch. 

"Give that to me," said Derek. He extended a hand for the memory clip. 

"Sorry, boys," Kate chirped. She held up her phone. "It's in the wind, now." 

Peter growled, a deep, thrumming sound that jangled Stiles' guts. 

"Oh, hush, puppy." Kate tucked the phone into her pocket, then pointedly reached behind her and drew a pistol from the small of her back. Stiles saw Derek stiffen. 

"You remember this place?" Kate gestured with her gun towards the picnic tables. "That was fun. Think I've still got the splinters in my ass." She laughed.

Derek watched the gun. "Put it away." 

"Or what?" Kate put her other hand on the grip, finger on the trigger. She aimed it at Derek's head. 

Stiles made a noise in his throat, but Derek didn't flinch. He stared at Kate, no light in his eyes. 

To his left, Stiles saw Peter's body shimmer strangely. He licked his lips, sweat starting to trickle from his hairline. 

"Kate?" Stiles tried to make his tone calm, but oh god, this was all going terribly wrong. Where were their witnesses?

"Be quiet, baby." Kate held Derek's gaze and cocked the pistol. "The grown-ups are talking." 

"That won't go well for you." Peter's voice was preternaturally deep. 

"It'll go bang-bang, just like it always does. And I'll have a witness, won't I? A sweet little doe-eyed thing who'll swear up and down about the big, bad wolves. Unless you're killing him, too." She shrugged one shoulder. 

Derek bared his teeth in a crude, lip-curling snarl. 

"You freaks must really have something going on up there, if you're willing to kill a lamb to keep it quiet. Say, what did my pet bring me? Torture? Cloning? A human breeding program?" She smiled like she was looking forward to it. 

Derek's eyebrows crowded, and he glanced—once, briefly—towards Stiles. 

"Oh my god." Kate's laugh was like sandpaper on bells. "That's incredible. I think you've actually gotten _more_ gullible. You don't even know what you're protecting." 

Kate quirked her head. 

"Or maybe…you do." Slowly, she shifted her arms, aiming away from Derek's face and centering the muzzle on Stiles' heart. 

Derek's eyes flashed blue. 

Kate smiled. 

"Stiles, come over here." Victoria Argent's steely voice had never been more beautiful. 

Stiles gulped a breath as he watched the camo and black-clad soldiers creep between the trees. The followed Victoria Argent's every twitch and soft command, forming a half-circle around the clearing. They were obviously Argent's vassals. Their guns were up, and so were a few sleek compound bows, arrows dangling from their fingertips, ready to nock. 

Peter faced them, back towards Kate and Stiles, and by his furious expression, he'd heard their approach. Stiles wondered why he hadn't run. 

He scooted his feet through the dirt, edging towards Victoria. Kate's gun followed him. 

"Kate," said a deeper voice, admonishing. "What are you doing?" Chris Argent held a pistol in his hands, but it was pointed down, his eyes glassy in the last of the day's light. 

Kate let the gun drift back to Derek. "Just an experiment." 

"Stiles," said Victoria, and Stiles picked up his feet, walking properly towards her huddle of weapons. He felt eyes on his back. 

"That's a lot of guns," Stiles murmured. 

Victoria didn't look at him. 

"It didn't work," said Stiles. 

"Be quiet." Victoria pumped her shotgun. 

Stiles stared at her, then looked at the faces around him. Some eyes were hidden behind night-vision goggles, but those who were bare-faced looked solemn. Determined. 

"Predictable," said Peter. 

And like they were waiting on his word, the Argents opened fire. 

"Derek!" Stiles shot forward, but an Argent shoved him back. 

He slammed into a pine tree. The air punched out of his lungs, and his thoughts leapt together in his head, making him stumble. He felt leaves and dirt beneath his hands. 

Stiles heard Peter's outraged growl and the dull squish of bodies falling. Gunfire smothered a pack howl. 

Was Laura already on her way?

"What are you doing?" Stiles wheezed, but he knew. He knew. God, he was stupid. 

Why would the Argents want to put Peter Hale on trial? What couldn't Peter lawyer his way out from under? Who couldn't he call in a favor with, or pay off? 

Much better to have the execution first. 

But they hadn't counted on Derek, either. Derek was innocent. (Probably, whispered a traitorous voice.)

Stiles got on his knees, enough breath back to move forward. The air was acrid and thick on his tongue. The world smelled like aconite on fire. Stiles could hear Derek thrashing, growling, fighting, and when he finally got a look at the clearing, he could see him. 

Peter and Derek were both shifted, eyes glowing and claws bloodied. A few Argents lay among the trees, pieces of their weapons scattered in the dirt. But Stiles saw no gaping wounds, and most of the bodies were moving. One woman clutched a grotesquely twisted shin. No deaths yet, Stiles thought—hoped. 

But even if he concentrated, Stiles couldn't keep his eyes on Peter and Derek. They moved too fast. Dodging bullets, striking necks and knees. They used the trees to their advantage, disappearing into the boughs only to emerge seconds later and knock the weapon from a human's grasp.

Run, Stiles thought. "Go." Why wasn't Derek escaping?

A pack howl pierced the air, but it wasn't from Derek or Peter. 

Laura?

A body fell from a tree and hit the ground. It was Peter, snarling and writhing. Blood darkened his pale blue oxford shirt, a stain growing larger by the moment. The wound smoked. 

It was over, Stiles thought. The Argents still standing trained their guns on the stationary target. Stiles held his breath. 

Another body dropped from the trees, this one like a shadow, all in black. Derek crouched low over his uncle, claws and teeth bared. 

"Derek." Stiles scrambled to his feet. "Derek!" 

Derek's ears pricked. 

The Argents hesitated, holding their fire, waiting for orders. Stiles looked for the flare of Victoria's red hair, but he couldn't find her in the trees. 

He sprinted into the clearing. 

Derek yowled, and Stiles swore he heard half a dozen fingers tighten on their triggers. 

"Hold!" a male voice—Chris? "Hold!"

Another pack howl, this timer closer. Louder. 

Stiles raced for Derek. He didn't know what he was going to do once he reached him—jump in his arms? Throw himself over his body, Pocahontas-style? Maybe nothing. Maybe Derek would break his legs, or rip out his throat, or just ignore him like he'd cracked a joke that Derek didn't understand.

He never found out. The moment he was within arm's reach, Peter erupted from the ground and grabbed him. 

Claws pressed into Stiles' throat and belly, pricking through his t-shirt. Peter panted against Stiles' ear, ruffling his hair, puffing humid breath against his neck. Stiles shuddered, and then, feeling Peter's grip tighten on his throat, he held very, very still. 

"Predictable," said Peter in the utter silence of the woods. 

"What are you doing?" Derek's voice was soft.

"Saving us. Like I always do." Peter rested his weight against Stiles, like standing was too much strain. If Stiles were a little quicker—or a little stupider—he'd try to escape while Peter was weak. 

But it doesn't take much force to cut a jugular, he thought, feeling the rub of Peter's knuckles as he breathed. 

Stiles turned his head as best he could and looked at Derek. The man looked sad, blue eyes full of hurt, hairless brow crumpled in confusion. His claws hung at his sides, hands loose and empty. 

"Three!" a woman's jagged scream ripped through the quiet. 

Immediately, the Argents shouldered their weapons. A second later, three shifted WWs emerged at Peter's back. 

As they appeared, all three of them moved together, a unit, but once in the clearing, they broke apart. A brunette woman—tall, almost as muscular as Derek, eyes glowing topaz—planted her feet to Peter's left. The other was a skinny man with curly hair and a pointed chin, the shift making him look like a nightmarish Snowtide elfling. He took Peter's right. Stiles heard the third WW take the place at Peter's back. 

Derek stared, eyes wide, mouth parting in shock. Stiles didn't need to look to know that Peter's eyes were bleeding red. He didn't need Derek's gasp—or the frantic clicking of the Argent's weapons—to know that Peter's body had begun to shift again, growing larger, shoulders broadening. 

His toes dangled in the air as Peter grew, clutching Stiles to his stomach like a favorite dolly. The hand on his throat became leathery, like a baseball mitt. The one on his belly wrapped around his waist. 

Stiles looked at Derek, but Derek was not looking back. He was struck dumb, staring at the monster his uncle had become. Stiles couldn't find it in himself to crow an, 'I told you so'.

Several things then happened in quick succession, so quick it all seemed to happen at once: 

An Argent soldier loosed an arrow, which fell into the center of the clearing and exploded in a flash of blinding light. It left spots and streaks on Stiles's vision, and the WWs shrieked. 

Blind and frightened, the elfling WW lashed out at the nearest soldier, claws slipping through his chest and unleashing a geyser of dark gore. The first death. First, Stiles thought, blinking frantically, eyes watering, because if the WWs killed one—if Peter were to protect himself—they'd have to kill them all. 

Kate Argent shouted, "What the hell are you waiting for?" and Stiles heard a gunshot. 

He screamed as a burst of fire burrowed through his thigh.

A voice spoke from behind Peter's head, and it was sweet, and familiar, and heavy with threat. 

"No more," said Scott McCall as he ripped four vertebrae from his alpha's neck. 

Stiles fell, suddenly free. He couldn't let go of his leg to catch himself, and instead the ground caught his jaw. He bit his tongue and tasted copper. 

An immense weight slammed into his back.

*


	13. Chapter 13

He saw Derek's face first, poised above him. 

"Stiles?" said Derek. 

"Scott," said Stiles. 

Someone touched his left hand—Stiles realized Derek was holding his right. He turned away from Derek's eyes, and found his dad leaning over him, reaching for his face. 

"Everybody's fine," said his dad. Stiles felt the roughness of his calluses as his dad stroked his cheek. 

That was a lie, clearly. He looked back to Derek, and he saw his pretty mouth moving, but something seemed off. He couldn't hear Derek anymore. His face began to ripple, and then to dim, and it made Stiles feel carsick. 

Stiles closed his eyes to block it out.

*

The next time he woke, the only thing hanging above him was a grey ceiling, glowing vaguely the way public buildings did at night. Stiles shifted in his bed and a recognized the clatter of medical equipment against bed rails. He was in a hospital.

The room was silent, which seemed strange to Stiles. Hospitals were noisy. 

Slowly, he sat up. He touched his neck, or tried. There was a foam collar wrapped around his throat. 

He looked down at his legs. 

Stiles moaned, more from shock than pain. Nothing really hurt, he noticed. Drugs. Drugs were awesome. 

Stiles touched the casts that covered his thighs. Nothing as crude as plaster—medical grade healing plastic. The slick, smooth casing fit him from groin to ankle on one leg, from the knee down on the other. 

Cautiously, Stiles wiggled his toes, and sighed a wavering sigh when both his feet responded. 

One wrist was also wrapped in a slick plastic casting, and he realized—when he turned to the side table for a drink of water—that his shoulder couldn't rotate completely due to the heavy shrink-tape wrapping holding it in place. Another wrapping was snug around his ribcage. 

Stiles touched the one around his ribs. Had he broken them? Did something crack? 

He looked around the room again. Blank, dim. Outside, a moon glowed sullenly. Stiles tried to remember the ride to the hospital, but there was nothing there. The last thing he remembered was Peter Hale's claws on his throat, and then so many people screaming—gunfire—the pain in his leg; Scott's voice; and Derek howling, howling, howling. 

Stiles pressed his fists against his forehead. He could taste the smoke and the bitter tang of adrenaline. The tears welled against his will, and he choked on a sob, trying to breathe. He tried to gulp the air, but his chest was heaving too hard to keep it in. He was losing the breaths before they were halfway down his throat. Something was beeping—a hospital noise, familiar but not comforting, and memories of his mother were not helping.

He was going to drown. He was going to drown on dry land, in a fucking hospital, oh fucking god, he was going to drown. 

A nurse in purple scrubs jogged through the doorway, and Stiles realized he was having a panic attack. 

The blonde man pressed a button on the wall display, and sense of artificial tranquility seeped through Stiles' body, like someone had wrapped him styrofoam. 

"Stiles, you're having an anxiety attack," said the nurse. Stiles nodded. 

It would be over soon, he thought. That was the most effective way he'd found to end them: to remember they could end. 

When Stiles calmed down and began to breathe normally, the nurse explained that he was at the North Grove Private Hospital, being treated for various injuries. When Stiles asked, he hesitated, and then told him: a through-and-through gunshot wound in his left thigh, two broken legs, a broken wrist, a twisted shoulder, a sprained neck, one broken rib, two cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and various minor cuts and bruises.

Stiles looked down at his body, a little impressed, while the nurse went on. 

His father had gone home only a few hours previously and would be back in the morning.  
Stiles was healing very well. They expected no complications, and within a couple of weeks, he should feel better than new. 

The nurse bent to check one of the devices attached to Stiles' arm. On the chart, next to Stiles' full name, 'HALE' was written in all capital letters and underlined three times.

*

His father arrived the next morning. He crossed the threshold of Stiles' room and enveloped Stiles in his arms, clutching tightly enough to make Stiles's shoulder twinge. Stiles didn't care. He dug his fingers into his father's shoulders.

When dad finally let go, they both had tears in their eyes. His dad took a little extra time dragging a chair next to Stiles' bed, arranging it to the perfect angle. Stiles brushed the tears off his cheeks, took a few deep breaths, and pointedly did not notice if his father did the same. When dad finally faced Stiles, the light from the large window cast the circles beneath his eyes in stark relief. 

"I'm going to be all right," said Stiles. 

His dad nodded, and they both sat with that for a moment. 

"What happened?" The question burst out of him. "The friggin' nurses won't tell me anything."

His dad looked pointedly at the heart rhythm display on the wall, but Stiles refused to be cowed. He clenched his jaw. 

The Sheriff sighed. "Peter Hale is dead."

"I figured." 

"Scott killed him."

His eyes widened. His heart rate monitor began to beep disapprovingly. Laura Hale was not about to relinquish her alpha-dom to a teenaged VALPHS. 

His dad put a hand on his forearm and squeezed. "Scott is fine. The Hales made sure of it." Stiles snorted, but his dad kept talking. "What Scott did is not…public knowledge." His dad paused. "Actually, nothing's public knowledge. Except that Peter's dead. Suicide. They're holding a funeral a few days from now." 

"A funeral."

His dad nodded, staying silent, giving Stiles a moment to sort through his thoughts. 

"Scott's fine," Stiles said at last. 

"I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he knows you're awake. Had to drag him out of this chair at gunpoint." 

Stiles looked at his knees. "And"— _Where's Derek?_ —"the Hales?" 

He chanced a glance back up, trying not to look desperate, but his father's expression said he wasn't fooled. "He was here, kid. I'm sure he'll be back." 

Stiles jerked his head in a nod, then scratched his fingers against the blanket. "So, officially complicit in my very first government cover-up," said Stiles. 

"I'm surprised it took you this long."

*

Scott was the first to arrive. He hugged Stiles just as tightly as the Sheriff had, and pressed his nose into Stiles' shoulder.

"Dude," Stiles said, swallowing around his suddenly thick tongue. He pushed at Scott's head, mussing his hair, and Scott broke away, eyes shining suspiciously and smile wide. "I smell like hospital."

"Yeah," said Scott, grinning. Stiles couldn't hold his eyes, looking back and away, his smile making his face hurt. 

They talked about school for an awkward minute, but finally, Stiles went quiet. 

"Can I see your eyes?" said Stiles. 

Scott's smile shrank. 

"You don't have to."

"No, it's fine," said Scott. "It's just…they aren't different. Right now." Scott took a breath. "It's complicated." 

Stiles wiggled in his sheets, pointedly settling back onto his pillows. Scott rolled his eyes, but then he leaned forward, thoughtlessly tugging at Stiles' blankets.

"I was with Allison," he said. "And I heard this…no, I didn't really hear it. I mean, it sounded like a howl. But like the memory of a howl, almost? I couldn't have _heard_ it, not really. He was too far away, but I knew it was happening. It was like…" Scott struggled. "I don't know. I heard a howl, and then I was running in the woods. I had to get to him. I had to protect him, no matter what. And then my pack was with me—"

"The other betas?" 

Scott nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, they're both okay, now." 

Stiles nodded like he cared, but didn't speak, not wanting Scott to stop talking. 

"We got to the clearing, and I couldn't really…think. I just knew my pack needed me. But when I got there, Peter was…and he had you." Scott looked into Stiles' face, eyes dancing from side to side like was imagining it. "You were bleeding. I could smell it, and then it was like I could think again, a little bit." A muscle in Scott's jaw tightened. "I couldn't let him hurt anybody else." 

Stiles put a hand on Scott's arm, and Scott looked down, hiding his eyes under a curtain of hair. For a moment, Stiles sincerely wished that Scott had never been in the clearing. Even if it meant the world would have gone to hell.

"Anyway." Scott's voice was raspy. "I guess Allison called the cops, and when your dad heard it was me—"

"He came himself, right?" They'd be having words about recklessness later. 

Scott smirked, like he'd read Stiles' mind. "Yeah. But we were gone by then. After I…I mean, after, there was this…rush. It was incredible. But I was so… _angry_. I think I would've hurt them, if I'd stayed. The Argents, I mean." 

"Yeah." 

"But Laura arrived. I wanted to fight her, I think, but she didn't challenge me. She and Derek calmed me down. I don't really remember how, it's all still sort of…." 

Scott plucked at a stray thread on Stiles' blanket. He extended the claw on his pointer finger and delicately sliced it away. 

"They took me to Tris." 

"They did fucking not." 

Scott looked startled, but he smiled. "They did." 

Stiles groaned. 

"Do you want a description?"

"Do you want a description?" Stiles mocked, falsetto. 

Scott shrugged. "If you don't wanna know…."

"I hate you." 

"It looked almost exactly like the inside of Dexter's lab." 

Stiles stared. 

"You know, like, _'DeeDee, you are ruining my experiments'_?"

"Oh my god." 

Scott shoved at his legs, careful not to push too hard. "Shut up." 

Stiles whined anyway, grabbing his left leg and sticking out his lower lip. 

"That did not hurt." 

"I'm _wounded_ , here. I'm an _invalid_. A poor widdle hoo-man against the big bad—"

"You wanna hear this or not?" 

Stiles licked his lips, trying to tame his smile. "Go on," he said with exaggerated formality. 

Scott rolled his eyes, but he continued. "We went down to the basement. I think. It's hard to tell where you are in there, there aren't really windows. I mean, there are, but they don't show the outside. It's hard to describe. 

"But Derek and Laura argued with the guards to bring me in, and there were all these vacuum chambers, and the whole time I kept feeling…like somebody was trying to hurt my mom, y'know? Like that feeling, only times a thousand. Like I wanted to kill everything, or eat it, or maybe protect it. It was hard to tell. 

"We got down to this level. Really deep underground…I think. And there was this circular room, and I thought they were going to put me in a cage or, like, a machine, or something. But there's just this…tree. I mean, it's a computer. They said it was a computer. But it looks like a tree."

Stiles resisted the urge to take Scott by the shoulders and shake. The Nemeton. The fucking _Nemeton_. Stiles put a hand over his mouth and rubbed, just to be sure he didn't blurt something out and interrupt. 

"Me and Laura went up to it, and…that part is really fuzzy. I don't remember a lot of it, but I think there were some other people, there. After, they said that Laura and I could share the power, that they'd figured out what Peter did, and that we could do it, too. Except we would control it." 

Scott looked at Stiles with soft eyes, like he was expecting Stiles to reprimand him. "I didn't think about the power when I…when it happened. There was just so much blood everywhere. I could hear all these heartbeats going crazy—everyone was so scared—and yours just…Stiles…."

Stiles grabbed fistfuls of Scott's t-shirt and pulled him closer, yanking until he could get his arms back around him. 

Scott huffed against his ear, but he leaned into Stiles' shoulder. 

Quietly, Stiles said, "I would have died."

"You almost did," Scott whispered back.

"Shut up. I'm fine, and you saved us." Stiles squeezed him. "Nobody else was going to."

*

Lydia visited him later that afternoon, gliding into the room on four-inch heels, two messenger bags slung over her shoulders.

She perched on the edge of his bed and pulled out each of the assignments he'd missed, pointing to the section in her notes that would explain the material. Stiles watched her lips move and noticed how she never looked directly at his face. 

"Lydia," he said, when at last she'd stood up and made to leave. She didn't turn to face him. 

"Thank you," he said. 

Lydia looked at him with glassy eyes. 

"You owe me," she said, her voice thin. She ducked in and pressed her lips against his cheek, then disappeared in a swirl of barrel curls. 

The warm, sweet scent of her clung to his blankets for nearly an hour.

*

Derek didn't come for another two days.

The doctor had told him just a few hours earlier that his recovery was on track, and that he would be released into his father's care in the morning. Stiles was more than ready. He couldn't take another day lying around in the same bed. 

His dad had left for the night shift. 

Stiles dozed, staring out the window at the moon. When he turned to look to his left, Derek was there, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his face. 

Stiles tensed, and saw Derek's hands tighten on his leather-clad elbows. 

Deliberately, he relaxed against his pillows. And waited. 

Until he couldn't. 

"Are you coming in or not?"

Derek appeared in the chair beside his bed, perched delicately on the edge of the seat. 

More silence. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow, you know."

"I didn't want to be in the way." 

Stiles ignored the way his heart leapt at Derek's voice. Derek's eyes drifted towards his chest. 

Stiles shifted, tossing his head and trying to think of something—anything—to say to distract Derek from the sound of Stiles being an idiot. 

"You were right."

Stiles snapped his gaze back to Derek's face. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You were right. About Peter." 

"Uh-huh." 

"If I had listened to you, none of this would have happened." 

"Probably not," said Stiles, and it didn't make him feel good to see Derek wince, but it didn't exactly feel bad. 

He could see Derek's chest expand as he drew in a preparatory breath. He stared into Stiles' eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, "for…everything. All of it." He looked down, and Stiles noticed that he'd unfolded his arms. He clutched the rails of Stiles' bed. "I wish I'd left you the hell alone."

Stiles said nothing for a long moment. "You do, huh?" 

"Yes," said Derek, with a heavy sigh, like he'd been holding the words in for months. 

Stiles bit the inside of his lip to keep it from trembling. "Well," said Stiles, voice hoarse. "Spilled milk." 

Derek nodded. 

Stiles studied his features, the sharp edge of his nose, the lashes framing his downcast eyes. The hard line of his mouth. The darkness of his hair, and the soft patch of skin just behind his ear, there, that if Stiles ran his teeth over, would make Derek hold him just a little bit tighter. 

Stiles' voice shook. "We have to talk about this."

"I know," said Derek, but he still wouldn't look at him. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm going home." 

Derek nodded. 

"Okay?" 

"Okay."

*

Climbing stairs wasn't really an option at the moment, so his dad made up the sofa as a bed. He brought Stiles down stacks of clothes and his own pillows. Stiles buried his face in a soft flannel pillowcase and breathed.

But the novelty of home wore off quickly, days on the couch turning into weeks, and after two weeks of bed rest, they both agreed that if Stiles didn't go back to school, there was going to be a murder in the Stilinski house. 

At school, Stiles was so used to the staring at this point that he barely even noticed. There were awkward questions and official cover stories that consisted mostly of saying nothing at all. Stiles was so far behind in his classes that he didn't even know which questions to raise his hand and ask. He didn't ask any. 

Victoria Argent took a leave of absence. Allison walked around looking haunted. She and Scott had several tearful conversations in Stiles' Jeep while Stiles loitered nearby. 

Stiles was not asked to attend Peter's funeral, which was a relief, because he honestly didn't know if he could have gone without spitting on that monster's grave. 

He watched the ritual cremation on local news. Laura did not give a speech. Derek's eyes were red and blue and black. 

Stiles rubbed his phone against his mouth, thinking and debating, but he didn't call. 

A month passed. 

Derek didn't call him, either.

*


	14. Chapter 14

_Dear Mr. Stilinski,_

_Congratulations!_

_It is my pleasure to offer you admission to the University of California, Berkeley.  
_

Stiles stared at his appdesk. Slowly, he rose from his seat, arms extended over his head. He looked at the ceiling and smiled while giggles broke out around him. 

"Mr. Stilinski, if you would take your seat." 

"In a minute." 

The laughter grew louder. 

Scott leaned over to look at his desk. He whooped. "Dude!" 

"Dude," Stiles agreed. 

Their teacher sighed. 

"I didn't even know you applied," said Scott. 

"Yeah, but I've been pretty busy—"

_"Mr. Stilinski."_

Stiles dropped into his seat.

*

Stiles studied the shiny H painted over the cement wall. Planting his feet in front of it, he breathed in the musk of the parking garage and tried to remember the angle he'd held his head when they'd snapped that first photo. Different castle, but the same moat.

Beside him, the elevator doors dinged, and a couple stepped out. They barely glanced at him. 

Stiles stepped into the elevator and rode to nearly, but not quite, the penthouse.

*

He heard footsteps on the other side of Derek's door. Closer, closer. A hand on the door, and then a long pause.

Stiles licked his lips. Would Derek even let him in? He squinted. He'd make Derek let him in. 

The door swung wide, revealing a barefoot Derek in a pair of grey sweatpants and a soft, faded t-shirt. 

"Sorry, I didn't call ahead," said Stiles. 

"Okay." Derek kept his hand on the doorknob. 

Stiles pushed past him, not waiting for an invitation, just in case there wasn't to be one. 

Next to the buttery leather couch sat a pile of dishes, a tablet, and an actual, no kidding paperback. Takeout containers popped out of the carpet like gnomes in a garden. 

Stiles heard the door close. He heard Derek shuffling behind him.

"I got into Berkeley," said Stiles. The sounds stopped. 

"Congratulations." 

"Thanks." Stiles sat down on the edge of the couch. 

Derek stared at him. Stiles pretended not to notice. 

"Got the letter in class. And detention. Received that also, in addition. Immediately following." 

Derek's mouth twitched like he wanted to smile. He crossed his arms over his chest to hold it in. 

"You're going, then?"

"I can't turn it down, you know that. You know that." 

Derek wouldn't meet his eyes. 

"Did it cost a lot of money?" said Stiles.

"What?"

"That letter."

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Your ears are turning red."

Derek scratched at his head and walked into the kitchen. "Can I send the deposit to save your spot?" 

Stiles followed him to the kitchen and leaned against the cafe table, the one he'd sat at for hours while going over their contract. Derek fumbled with a water glass. 

"I didn't apply to Berkeley." 

"What a windfall."

"Derek." 

Derek set the glass in the sink. He didn't look up from his hands. 

"Ninety-five credits," said Derek.

"That's the application fee." 

Derek shrugged. 

The last of the evening light spilled across the stainless steel sink, burning, forcing Stiles to squint to see Derek's face. 

"Why?"

"You said you wanted it." He sounded annoyed. 

"I did. I mean, I do." 

"But?"

"But nothing, I want it. I—thanks. Thank you." 

Derek nodded. 

Stiles run his thumbs over the edge of the table, pressing down hard, letting the veneered edge bite. 

"Is there…did you want something else?"

"Do you do takeout?"

"I mean, did you—"

"Why weren't you there?" The question tipped out of his mouth like a plate from an overburdened tray. Predictable, and weighty, the first to go, and about to shatter all over the floor. 

He pressed harder on the table. 

"You mean—"

"I mean I woke up, and this place was empty. After." He felt tight all over. He waited for Derek's eyes to meet his. It was a long wait. "Where did you go?"

"Not far." 

Stiles waited for more, but there wasn't more. Nothing else. Stiles freed the table edge. He turned around, gathering himself up, any pieces that might have been left in unruly stacks. 

Almost made it to the door. 

Derek snatched him back, hard hands around Stiles' upper arms, fingers digging in to his hoodie. Stiles felt Derek like a wall of heat behind him, his breath on the nape of his neck. 

"Where are you going?" Derek's voice was pitched high, almost frantic. 

"Oh, fuck you, man." Stiles' voice shook. "Like, really, you go—you—"

"Stay." A growl. 

Stiles closed his eyes. 

Long silence. 

"Sorry," said Derek, finally, so softly that Stiles felt it more than heard it, brushing the back of his neck. 

Stiles steeled himself to pull out of Derek's hands. 

Gently, he felt himself shifted, overwhelming strength dampened to a questioning tug, gliding Stiles around. He refused to open his eyes, but he felt Derek's gaze on him as clearly as he felt his closeness. Heavy.

"Sorry," he said again. "It just…hurts…when you leave. You can go." His hands loosened, slowly, and slipped down, barely clinging to Stiles' elbows. Softly, softly, as if he didn't want Stiles to hear: "Whenever you want."

Stiles stared, thoughts whirling in his head. _You can go_. 

He planted two hands on Derek's chest and shoved. Derek stumbled, shocked enough to lose his balance.

"Don't you turn this on me, you ass. I can go when I want? When _I_ want? So you can completely avoid any responsibility for _anything_?" 

"No, I—"

"For cutting me off? For not fucking being there when I woke up, and thinking I—that I was like _her_? And now it matters what I want?"

Derek's hands clenched. "I said I'm sorry."

"Sure. Right. Sorry. That's great, thanks for that. Sorry. Sorry I thought you were like my lying, murdering, psycho ex, it's not like we're supposed to be mated or anything, my bad." 

"It's complicated, okay? It's not as simple as a heartbeat."

"Really. Then what? Moods? Auras? Scents? Fucking—how could you possibly not know?"

“Because I loved her, too, you little shit, and whenever she opened her mouth it was Bible-fucking-verse." Derek glared at him. "You don't know what it's like, trying to hear through that."

"Literally everyone knows what that's like, Derek. There's a proverb about it."

Derek scraped his hands through his hair and looked at the floor.

"And don't think I missed your little confession, there, playboy. Yeah, that was your outside voice." 

"Stiles, please," Derek begged, voice breaking. "I know it was wrong. I know I fucked up, and I deserve this, but if you're going to go, will you—please, will you just go?" 

Stiles considered it. He saw himself walking out, the door closing, his Jeep starting, his dad crowing over his acceptance letter, the tears in his eyes— "I don't want to." 

"Why?" His eyes were wide and pleading, and Stiles hated it. 

"If you'd listen to something other than your own deafening bullshit, you might hear me loving you back." 

The look of wounded confusion grew more grave. Derek tilted his head, mouth opening, but no words emerged. He shook his head, back and forth. 

Stiles took him by the hand and drew him closer. He pressed Derek's palm just over his heart. 

"I can't tell," said Derek, broken. 

Stiles tipped down his stubbled chin, holding it firmly where he wanted. They were of a height. He hovered, lips barely brushing Derek's, breaths teasing together. His lashes fell on his cheeks as he watched Derek's face contort. 

Claws pricked Stiles' shirt as Derek reeled him in.

When they parted, Stiles watched Derek's mouth retreat, lips glossy and puffed. His own chin felt scraped and raw. Derek's eyes fluttered over Stiles' features. 

"If you come with me," said Stiles, "does that count as leaving?" 

"You'd let me come with you?"

"Let you give up your job, your team, your sister, and this amazing apartment? Uh, yeah, I think I could handle the sacrifice."

Stiles looked at the floor, embarrassment starting to rise, but Derek's hands cupped his face, tilting him back up to meet Derek's eyes. 

"You'd let me be with you. Your mate." A demand. A nervous one, Derek's eyes too soft and mouth wavering—his fingers clinging too tight. 

Stiles touched Derek's wrist, wrapped his fingers around it, felt the grace of Derek's bones, and squeezed. "Yeah." He leaned into Derek's hands. "All mine."

* The End *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Only...nine (?) months after my deadline. Sorry, basically, to my artist and mods, but at least I finished it eventually, right?
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who commented and kudo'd. Meat World has been more like a Meat Grinder this past year, and I could not have finished this without your heart warming encouragement and blatant guilt-tripping.
> 
> *EDIT 01/13/2014: Originally, I abandoned this pen name and associated tumblr because of a difficult RL situation. That situation has since been resolved, and I feel comfortable publicly directing people to my new accounts. You can find me on [tumblr](http://nikanielson.tumblr.com), [LJ](http://nikanielson.livejournal.com), or [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NikaNielson/works) as NikaNielson.


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